v\.S.V.S  1 

UNIVERSITY  OF  OREGON  BULLETIN 

New  Series  SEPTEMBER,  1910  Vol.  VIII,  No.  1 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  TEACHING 
RHETORIC  IN  THE 
HIGH  SCHOOL 


EDWARD  A.  THURBER 

Professor  of  Rhetoric,  University  of  Oregon 


t 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  TEACHING 
RHETORIC  IN  THE 
HIGH  SCHOOL 


EDWARD  A.  THURBER 

Professor  of  Rhetoric,  University  of  Oregon 


THE  PROBLEM  OF  TEACHING  RHETORIC  IN  THE 
HIGH  SCHOOL.* 

I. 

The  sensations  which  a body  of  students  experiences  on  first 
taking  up  the  study  of  Rhetoric  might,  I presume,  be  tabulated, 
if  one  were  industrious  enough  or  expert  enough  to  make  the 
attempt.  I do  not  recall  an  investigation  of  this  character  ever 
having  been  made.  The  chief  difficulty,  I imagine,  in  the  way  of 
such  a tabulation  would  be,  not  in  a failure  to  get  some  expression 
from  the  students — they  would  be  fairly  ready  with  that — but  in 
a failure  to  get  an  expression  that  would  differentiate  Rhetoric 
from  any  other  subject  they  might  be  taking,  say,  History  or 
Mathematics  or  Geography.  The  expression,  then,  would  probably 
follow  closely  the  students’  tastes — their  likes  and  dislikes.  Some 
might  not  be  happy  without  Rhetoric ; others  might  spurn  it 
vehemently,  as  Macaulay  spurned  cold  boiled  veal.  Some  might 
enter  upon  its  study  with  gladness,  because  their  parents — alas! 
too  few — had  impressed  upon  their  minds  its  importance;  others, 
for  various  reasons — I need  not  enumerate  them — might  take  up 
the  work  with  scowls  and  sinister  looks.  These  latter  would  form 
an  especially  communicative  group  for  tabulation.  Still  others, 
to  paraphrase  Job,  might  take  Rhetoric  upon  their  shoulders  and 
bind  it  as  a crown  to  them.  This  is  the  emotional  group.  They 
have  walked  through  country  lanes,  and,  in  the  manner  of  their 
elders,  have  known  cattle  and  men.  To  them  Rhetoric  is  the  great 
opportunity. 

Of  course,  all  would  demand  that  the  subject  be  made  interest- 
ing, or,  possibly,  exciting,  and  the  teacher  would  doubtless  do  her 
best  to  respond  to  this  call.  If  she  were  strong  and  robust,  she 
might  wax  fat  on  the  excitement;  if  frail,  she  might  succumb  to 
nervous  prostration.  Yet  her  dying  breath  might  be  an  exaltation 

*In  this  discussion  I am  employing  the  words  Rhetoric  and  English 
Composition  synonymously. 


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that,  anyway,  in  stirring  up  excitement,  she  had  made  the  good 
fight.  Still,  the  majority  of  teachers — I have  no  statistics  at  hand 
— probably  neither  wax  fat  nor  sink  to  a premature  grave.  Most 
of  them  are  conscientious;  many  are  fervid;  some  are  interesting; 
and  no  doubt  by  these  various  classes  is  imparted  a modicum — 
we  teachers  of  Rhetoric  have  learned  to  be  unassuming — a modicum, 
I say,  of  valuable  instruction.  I wish  to  say  a word  or  two  on 
the  problems  involved  in  presenting  this  much  discussed  subject 
to  high  school  students. 

1.  To  begin  with,  Rhetoric  is  an  art.  That  point,  of  hoary 
antiquity,  must  be  insisted  upon  and  thoroughly  established  with- 
out end.  It  has  very  important  bearings  in  a discussion  of  the 
subject.  Of  course  Grammar  is  not  an  art,  nor  are  the  principles 
underlying  Rhetoric,  nor  the  methods  of  teaching  it  in  themselves 
art;  no  more  may  the  study  of  an  exquisite  lyric  poem  be  called 
art.  The  study  of  History  or  the  study  of  Literature  has,  as  its 
aim,  knowledge,  appreciation,  or,  to  use  a scholastic  word,  content. 
The  study  of  Rhetoric  has,  as  its  principal  aim,  expression.  Any 
subject  with  such  an  aim  must  be  art,  for  art  may  be  defined  for 
our  purposes  as  expression  or  form  giving.  Music  and  painting 
and  dancing  and — shall  we  say? — football  are  studies  of  expression, 
sister  arts  to  Rhetoric.  Their  object  is  to  get,  out  of  knowledge, 
form. 

If,  then,  as  teachers,  we  bear  constantly  in  mind,  as  most  of 
us  do  bear  it  in  mind,  that  Rhetoric  is  an  art,  that  its  ultimate 
aim  is  expression  in  words,  we  shall  be  greatly  aided  in  presenting 
the  subject  to  students.  The  matter  of  presentation,  however,  I 
hope  to  dwell  upon  more  in  detail  later;  we  may  for  the  present 
hold  it  in  solution  and  direct  our  inquiry  toward  certain  superficial 
implications  which  the  definition  of  Rhetoric  as  an  art  involves.  I 
say  superficial , because  I do  not  intend  to  discuss  any  primary  dis- 
tinctions between  Rhetoric  and  its  sister  arts — painting,  music, 
sculpture,  or  even  football.  I wish  merely  to  lay  emphasis  on  the 
universality  of  Rhetoric. 

2.  In  the  first  place,  Rhetoric  is  the  only  art  that  a civilized 
man,  or,  perhaps,  a savage,  for  that  matter,  cannot  possibly 
escape.  The  Rhetoric  of  a savage,  to  be  sure,  has  distinct  limita- 
tions. He  studies  war;  that's  science.  He  puts  his  knowledge 
into  expression,  hurls  a spear,  kills  an  enemy;  that's  art.  He 
cries,  “uph”;  that's  Rhetoric.  But  the  Rhetoric  of  a savage  is 


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quite  too  primitive  to  aid  us  in  its  general  discussion.  We  must 
confine  ourselves  to  the  Rhetoric  of  barbarians — I mean  schoolboys 
— and  of  civilized  persons — other  schoolboys,  and  girls. 

Does  it  not  stand  to  reason  that  Rhetoric,  unlike  any  other  art, 
is  absolutely  unescapable?  Comparatively  few  of  us  nowadays 
ever  engage  in  the  art  of  war,  even  in  its  most  diluted  form, 
athletics.  Dancing  most  of  us  escape  or  not,  as  we  wish.  For- 
tunately drawing  and  singing  hold  a much  more  significant  place 
in  our  high  school  curricula  than  they  used  to  hold.  But,  even 
granting  that  drawing  and  singing  may  in  the  near  future  be 
required  studies  of  everybody,  their  vogue  may  not  be  compared 
with  the  universality  of  Rhetoric.  They  are  taken  as  studies 
among  other  studies;  after  a time  the  student  may  drop  them. 
He  can  never  by  any  possibility  drop  Rhetoric.  The  art  of  express- 
ing himself  adequately  in  words  hounds  him  from  the  first  moment 
he  begins  to  articulate  until  he  dies.  It  permeates  all  other  studies, 
nearly  all  vocations  and  avocations.  He  is  compelled  to  translate 
his  life,  his  experiences,  into  words.  The  lines  of  Emerson  may 
be  turned  to  express  the  spirit  of  Rhetoric: 

“They  know  not  well  the  subtle  ways 
I keep,  and  pass  and  turn  again. 


They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out; 

When  me  they  fly,  I am  the  wings.” 

To  be  sure,  a time  comes  when  the  student  may  drop  Rhetoric 
as  a special  study,  but  escape  it,  he  cannot.  Unless  he  has  gained 
some  fundamental  knowledge  of  it,  he  will  find  that  it  has  the 
whip  on  him.  No  amount  of  bucking  will  dislodge  such  a rider. 

And,  of  course,  this  unique  place  of  Rhetoric  among  studies 
is  recognized  everywhere.  There  are  very  few  colleges  of  any 
standing  in  our  country  that  do  not  require  in  their  course  some 
amount  of  Rhetoric.  The  study  of  it  was  given  an  added  impetus 
a quarter  of  a century  or  so  ago,  when  Charles  Francis  Adams 
made  his  attack  on  Harvard.  “You  turn  out  men,”  he  said,  in 
substance,  “who  seem  to  have  a brave  knowledge  of  their  subject. 
But  I do  not  find  that  they  can  communicate  efficiently  their 
knowledge.  They  seem  to  be  lacking  in  articulation.”  Whereupon 
Harvard  began  to  introduce  extended  courses  in  Rhetoric.  And 
now  nearly  all  of  our  colleges  have  met  the  pressing  demand  for 
this  study  by  specialized  courses. 


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3.  But  there  is  another  characteristic  of  Rhetoric,  a character- 
istic, to  be  sure,  which  it  shares  with  all  the  other  higher  arts, 
but  which  is  often  lost  sight  of  or  ill  interpreted;  Rhetoric  is 
highly  artificial.  This  does  not  mean  that  there  are  not  what 
are  called  “natural”  methods  of  teaching  Rhetoric;  but  the  thing 
itself  is  artificial.  Talk,  of  course,  is  not  so  artificial  as  written 
prose — and  our  discussion  of  Rhetoric  will  confine  itself  largely 
to  the  written  form — nor  is  prose  so  artificial  as  verse.  But  all 
of  these  forms  bear  the  marks  among  the  great  nations  and  among 
cultivated  people  in  those  nations  of  years  and  years  of  slow  and 
patient  development.  Language  is  a very  conservative  thing.  It 
demands  that  certain  thoughts  be  expressed  in  certain  ways;  it 
looks  askance  at  new  words  and  new  phrases,  and  it  can  only 
be  made  to  adopt  innovations  by  a constant  pleading.  It  puts 
things  to  a majority  vote;  minorities  it  abhors.  Thus,  in  a most 
natural  and  deliberate  way,  it  remains  artificial.  The  school  boy 
has  to  obey  the  sanction  of  good  usage.  There  are  best  ways  of 
expressing  a sentence  as  well  as  of  shaping  a vase.  Both  the 
vase  and  the  sentence  spring  from  processes  of  rigid  training. 
Rhetoric,  then,  unescapable  and  universal,  is,  like  all  arts,  as  the 
very  name  art  implies,  artificial. 

The  common  saying,  “Write  as  you  talk,”  is,  as  we  all  know, 
a mere  pleasantry.  Even  a casual  scrutiny  will  reveal  in  a moment 
the  difference  between  what  is  acceptable  in  • speech  and  what  is 
acceptable  in  writing.  Between  the  two  there  lies  a wide  gulf. 
Talk  goes  on  very  loosely,  without  much  care  of  constructions; 
inflections,  or  a wave  of  the  hand,  serve  for  emphasis.  Writing, 
on  the  other  hand,  can  be  conducted  in  no  such  easy  going  spirit. 
The  writer  must  take  especial  pains  with  his  coherence,  and  must 
so  place  words  that  the  reader  will  of  necessity  emphasize  the 
words  intended  for  emphasis.  The  best  writing,  then,  merely  gives 
the  illusion  of  the  best  talk.  The  writer  has  done  laboriously  and 
artificially  what  the  talker  accomplished  with  far  less  care.  There 
is  no  need  of  the  pains  in  talking  that  there  is  in  writing.  The 
result  is  effected  in  other  ways.  The  saying,  “Write  as  you  talk,” 
means  simply,  “Do  the  best  you  can  to  make  the  reading  of  what 
you  have  written  seem  as  unlaborious  as  listening  to  fluent  speech; 
create  the  illusion.” 

Or  suppose  we  shift  the  point  of  view  from  the  reader  to  the 
writer.  We  have  pretty  good  evidence  that  Pascal  was  a con- 


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spicuously  luminous  talker.  The  records  of  his  conversations  show 
the  same  incisiveness  that  characterizes  his  writings.  Yet  when 
he  came  to  write  his  Provincial  Letters — we  are  informed  that  he 
copied  one  of  them  over  eighteen  times  before  he  deemed  it  worthy 
to  appear  before  the  public.  And  we  learn  further  that  before 
starting  any  of  these  letters,  he  was  accustomed  to  get  down  on 
his  knees  in  prayer.  Shakespeare,  another  notable  talker  in  his 
day,  is  said  to  have  written  the  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  under 
command  of  the  queen,  in  an  almost  incredibly  short  period  of  time, 
and,  presumably,  without  the  aid  of  prayer.  This  play,  as  we 
know,  is  not  in  pentameters,  but  in  prose.  The  talk  of  the  charac- 
ters is  credited  as  being  “natural”  to  a degree  and  wonderfully 
portrayed.  But  is  it  actually  talk?  To  be  sure,  it  is  to  be  spoken 
while  PascaPs  words  are  to  be  read.  Yet  I imagine  that,  if  we 
should  examine  carefully  what  these  people  in  the  drama  say,  we 
should  be  driven  to  conclude  that  only  a set  of  glorified  geniuses 
could  talk  like  that.  What  they  say  creates  the  illusion  of  talk, 
but  the  art  that  has  put  words  into  their  mouths  could  only  come 
from  a great  and  skillful  master.  The  novice,  indeed,  writes 
prose  more  as  Milton  often  wrote  it,  in  repugnance  or  in  anger. 
He  has  had  little  practice  and  he  refuses  to  pray.  And  it  almost 
seems  as  if  it  would  be  easier  for  him  to  write  in  blank  verse 
than  to  give  the  illusion  of  speech.  He  is  merely  finding  out  that 
what  he  is  putting  on  paper  doesn’t  somehow  look  so  glib  as  what 
he  rattled  off  in  talk.  His  medium  has  stiffened;  it  is  more 
artificial. 

4.  Enough  has  been  said,  perhaps,  on  the  general  nature  of 
Rhetoric  to  hazard  an  attempt  to  present  it  in  a different  light. 
And  if  I speak  most  often  of  the  high  school  graduate  as  he  pre- 
sents himself  to  college  as  a freshman,  I do  not  intend  to  imply 
that  all  high  school  boys  aspire  to  college.  It  is  only  as  he  comes 
to  college  that  I have  been  able  to  study  him.  Yet  whether  he 
purposes  to  enter  college  or  not,  I do  not  see  that  in  the  one  case 
or  in  the  other  his  training  should  follow  an  essentially  different 
plan.  Efficiency  in  expression  is  the  desideratum.  The  tools  of 
a boy  who  goes  into  blacksmithy  should  be  as  sharp  on  graduation 
from  high  school  as  the  tools  of  a boy  who  aims  to  pursue  scholar- 
ship. How  may  this  efficiency  in  articulation  best  be  acquired? 

Let  us  settle  one  thing  at  the  outset.  I intimated  in  the  early 
part  of  this  paper  that,  if  pupils  were  requested  to  express  for 


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purposes  of  tabulation  their  experiences  or  impressions  on  first 
taking  up  the  subject  of  Rhetoric,  many  of  them,  perhaps  most 
of  them,  would  express  themselves  in  the  way  of  their  preferences 
or  antipathies.  And  this  would  be  very  natural.  Expression  of 
opinion,  or,  better,  expression  of  prejudice,  is  the  long  suit  of  most 
of  us,  but  especially  is  it  the  long  suit  of  the  average  schoolboy. 
He  likes,  say,  History,  and  dislikes  Algebra;  he  adores  Longfellow, 
and  repudiates  Milton;  he  doesn’t  mind  Snowbound,  but  he  pro- 
tests vigorously  against  the  Ode  to  Duty.  Accordingly,  he  may 
be  willing  to  study  Geography  all  night,  but  he  doesn’t  give  the 
snap  of  his  fingers  for  Rhetoric.  Now,  naturally,  when  the  prob- 
lem of  teaching  has  to  do  with  authors  or  poems,  the  teacher  may 
decide  to  approach  the  pupil  along  the  line  of  least  resistance,  to 
lead  him  gently  from  the  worthy  authors  or  poems  he  takes  to 
to  those  he  holds  in  suspicion.  An  adroit  teacher  will  probably 
pursue  such  a course.  But  when  the  pupil  is  confronted  with  a 
new  subject  and  a change  of  teachers,  the  problem  becomes  at 
once  more  serious  and  complex.  For  if  the  pupil  happens  to  dis- 
like, say,  mathematics  in  any  form  whatsoever,  the  teacher  is 
hardly  bound  to  take  up  much  time  in  persuading  him  that  he 
should  like  it,  that  it’s  good  for  him,  or  in  endeavoring  to  feel 
her  way  from  his  least  to  his  greatest  abhorrence.  The  subject- 
matter  of  mathematics  may  not  admit  of  such  ready  treatment; 
it  hardly  pays  to  sugarcoat  wormwood.  The  teacher  will  probably 
cut  the  Gordian  knot  by  presenting  the  student’s  aversion  as  well 
as  she  knows  how.  She  hopes  for  the  best,  and  leaves  the  outcome 
to  the  arbitrament  of  the  sluggish  gods. 

Has  the  teacher  any  other  recourse  if  the  students’  pet  aversion 
happens  to  be  Rhetoric?  Evidently  not.  She  naturally  will  do 
her  best  to  stimulate  them,  always  hoping  that  they  may  become 
interested  in  some  part  of  the  subject,  and  that  the  interest  in 
this  part  may  lead  them  to  place  greater  value  on  the  rest.  But 
with  all  her  zeal  and  the  pleasure  she  gets  from  many  of  her 
students,  there  will  remain  some  hopeless  cases. 

The  teacher  of  Rhetoric,  however,  has  one  compensation,  and 
that  an  important  one.  She  is  not  teaching  a subject  among 
subjects:  she  is  teaching  an  art;  and  this  happens  to  be  the  only 
art  that  a student  presents  for  college  entrance.  It  is  different 
from  all  the  other  subjects  a pupil  takes — except  drawing  and 
singing — not  in  name  merely,  but  in  kind.  It  permeates  all  the 


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subjects  of  content;  it  underlies  them;  it  serves  them.  Thus  the 
teacher  of  Rhetoric  will  become  conscious  of  a peculiar  value 
attached  to  her  subject,  of  its  singular  importance.  And  this 
consciousness  will  be  to  her  immensely  satisfying.  This  universal 
service  of  Rhetoric  becomes  at  once  its  exaltation,  just  as  the 
exaltation  of  a man,  the  measure  of  his  worth  to  a community, 
consists  in  his  service. 

And  this  is  what  I meant  a moment  ago  when  I said  that  we 
must  settle  one  thing  at  the  outset.  The  distinction  of  Rhetoric 
from  other  subjects  is  that  it  differs  from  them  in  kind.  Not 
only  is  it  the  most  universal  subject,  not  only  does  it  possess  a 
marked  artificiality;  its  very  nature  makes  its  place  among  sub- 
jects unique. 

Thus,  if  the  teacher  of  Rhetoric  does  not  see  fit  to  spend  much 
time  in  impressing  upon  indifferent  students  the  importance  of 
her  subject,  she  at  least  can  count  upon  or  ought  to  count  upon 
the  co-operation  of  the  other  teachers.  Perhaps,  even,  her  point 
of  view  may  come  to  be  accepted  by  the  school  superintendent. 
There  is  a large  field  here  for  missionary  effort.  But  say  that 
her  yeast  began  to  work,  that  the  whole  lump  became  leavened, 
and  that  it  swelled  so  rapidly  that  all  the  teachers,  all  the  pro- 
fessors, rose  in  a body  and  cried,  “Nay,  this  Rhetoric  is  important. 
We  will  teach  it  ourselves.  No  one  shall  escape  us  who  does 
not  articulate  himself  as  we  will  in  our  own  subject.”  What,  then, 
would  become  of  the  particular  department  of  Rhetoric?  Well, 
this  would  be  a predicament.  Yet,  somehow,  I imagine  that  the 
danger  from  this  quarter  is  not  imminent.  College  professors  in 
particular  would  think  seven  times  before  they  added  to  their 
burdens  that  of  Rhetoric.  It  would  be  rather  expensive  for  one 
thing;  it  would  require  a large  force  of  instruction;  the  regents 
might  demur.  And  we  should  all  have  passed  to  another  world 
before  they  came  to  a definite  conclusion.  It  is  said,  to  be  sure, 
that  in  Princeton,  with  the  tutorial  system  in  vogue  there,  each 
preceptor  attends  to  the  expression  of  his  particular  diminutive 
group  of  students.  I have  no  data  as  to  the  success  of  this  experi- 
ment. I only  know  that  it  is  expensive.  But  in  the  high  schools, 
this  danger,  as  I call  it  for  the  moment,  opens  up  afresh  the  whole 
discussion  of  how  Rhetoric  should  be  taught  there.  Suppose,  then, 
we  consider  briefly  what  such  a revolution  implies. 


10 


II. 

For  want  of  an  extended  vocabulary,  I shall  call  this  method 
of  presenting  Rhetoric  the  ideal  method.  And  it  seems  to  me 
that  the  ideal  method  would  operate  somewhat  as  follows: 

In  our  high  schools,  as  we  know,  the  teaching  of  Rhetoric 
usually  falls  to  the  teacher  of  English  Literature.  When  we  speak 
of  English,  we  are  accustomed  to  include,  tacitly,  Rhetoric.  The 
teachers  of  these  two  subjects  are  in  reality  one — a sort  of  dual 
unity.  This  is  a time-honored  practice  of  ours,  in  many  respects 
very  natural,  and  in  some  respects  odd.  To  be  sure,  to  whom 
would  the  discipline  in  expression  more  naturally  fall  than  to  the 
teacher  of  English?  Has  not  her  subject  trained  her  to  set  great 
store  by  the  way  of  putting  things?  But  we  need  not  discuss 
why  this  point  of  view  of  considering  the  teacher  of  English 
and  the  teacher  of  Rhetoric  as  one  and  the  same  person  is  natural. 
We  are  at  present  rather  more  interested  in  its  result,  in  the 
curious  condition  that  it  has  brought  about,  in  its  having  made 
of  Rhetoric,  for  instance,  a study  of  content,  a study  among  other 
studies,  as  is  English  Literature. 

The  University  of  Oregon  requires  that,  for  admission,  the 
student  shall  present  six  or  seven  subjects  and  a few  others,  these 
latter  being  grouped  under  “electives.”  These  requirements  are 
not  essentially  different  in  character  from  the  requirements  de- 
manded by  other  state  universities,  nor  are  they  essentially  fewer 
or  greater  in  number.  Some  seventy  odd  high  schools  in  the  state 
have  met  this  demand,  and  their  pupils  are  consequently  admitted 
to  the  university  without  examination.  In  these  requirements  no 
direct  reference  is  made  to  Rhetoric ; a reference,  however,  is  doubt- 
less implied  under  the  term  English;  and,  furthermore,  a reference 
is  more  than  implied  in  that  every  student  upon  entering  the 
university  from  the  high  schools  is  required  either  to  pass  a test 
examination  in  expression  or  to  take  a course  in  Rhetoric  in  his 
freshman  year. 

This  is  all  as  it  should  be,  or  somewhat  as  it  should  be.  The 
system  has  been  diligently  thought  out;  it  is  flexible,  changes  are 
made  from  time  to  time;  it  could  take  a prize,  a paper  prize  to  be 
sure,  at  any  unsuborned  interstate  fair.  I have,  however,  one 
slight  criticism  to  offer,  a criticism,  indeed,  that  implicates  the 
university  rather  than  the  high  schools.  Why  should  the  uni- 


11 


versity  require  a course  in  Rhetoric  when  the  students  have  been 
practicing  the  art  of  Rhetoric  for  the  greater  part  of  their  innocent 
lives?  And  this  is  the  way  they  presumably  have  been  drilled  in 
expression  in  the  high  schools. 

The  teacher  of  Mathematics  cries  out  to  her  pupil,  “Oh,  you 
have  the  answer  well  enough,  James,  but  your  delivery  was  very 
ungrammatical;  try  it  again.”  And  James  once  more  launches 
forth  in  his  recitation,  this  time  in  better  form;  until,  at  last, 
he  not  only  gives  a correct  answer,  but,  what  is  tolerably  important, 
he  has  framed  it  in  adequate  expression.  And  when  the  teacher 
of  Rhetoric  hears  of  James’  progress  in  mathematics,  she  smiles, 
for  everything  is  fish  for  her  net. 

When  she  learns  of  James’  training  in  his  Foreign  Language 
class,  her  smile  becomes  more  obtrusive.  What  an  insistent  way 
that  teacher  has  of  exacting  idiomatic  English;  how  patient  she 

is,  how  illuminating!  The  indirectness  of  method  is  especially 
appealing.  For  James  is  reviewing,  almost  without  his  knowing 

it,  his  grammar;  he  is  adding  to  his  stock  of  specific  words;  and 
his  insight  into  sentence  structure  is  deepening  tremendously.  And 
then,  when  it  comes  to  the  tests,  the  teacher  goes  over  his  paper 
with  him  and  points  out,  and  makes  him  write  over  again,  his 
faulty  expressions.  In  his  next  paper  in  the  English  class,  James’ 
punctuation,  to  be  sure,  may  still  be  a bit  shaky,  but  he  has 
acquired  a really  remarkable  felicity  in  turning  sentences.  The 
obtrusive  smile  of  the  teacher  of  Rhetoric  broadens  to  a grin. 
All  is  grist  that  comes  to  her  mill. 

And  when  James  enters  upon  the  study  of  History,  what  shall 
we  say?  The  thought  of  it  gives  us  pause;  it  is  sobering,  so 
sobering,  indeed,  that  we  might  as  well  drop  James  and  his 
teacher’s  grin.  The  teacher  of  History,  in  fact,  usurps  boldly 
the  very  field  of  Rhetoric.  Not  only  does  she  correct  the  students’ 
oral  expression,  not  only  does  she  see  to  it  that  every  paper  the 
students  present  is  correctly  punctuated  and  construed  before  she 
passes  upon  it,  but  she  examines  the  plan  of  presentation.  She 
insists  that  the  presentation  shall  be  organized;  one  topic  shall 
be  discussed  at  a time;  there  shall  be  no  useless  digressions,  no 
confusion  of  thought,  no  slopping  over;  but  the  whole  shall  march 
forward  evenly  to  a climax.  The  teacher  herself  is  a master  of 
Rhetoric.  She  knows,  for  instance,  that  punctuation  is  structural, 
that  it  whispers  in  undertones,  revealing  the  very  secrets  of 


12 


thoughts.  She  knows  not  only  that  a sentence  is  bad,  but  how 
to  go  about  to  make  it  correct.  Her  reasons  are  based  not  merely 
on  taste  but  on  principles  and  a knowledge  of  the  history  of  the 
language.  So  far-reaching,  in  fact,  is  her  criticism  that  she  and 
the  teacher  of  Rhetoric  come  to  an  amicable  compromise.  The 
latter  sloughs  off  her  duality,  the  astral  part  of  her,  and  becomes, 
what  she  has  always  wanted  to  be,  a teacher  of  English.  She 
rises,  to  be  sure,  to  a fuller  realization  than  ever  before  of  the 
infinite  opportunities  for  the  study  of  Rhetoric  in  her  own  subject, 
greater  perhaps  than  anywhere  else.  Not  only  does  she  insist, 
like  the  teacher  of  History,  on  accurate  definitions  and  clear  con- 
ceptions, on  organized  presentation,  but  she  delights  particularly 
in  what  she  calls  style,  in  niceties  of  expression,  and  in  invoking, 
if  she  may,  the  students’  originality  and  imagination.  And  what 
a relief;  she  may  now  discard  her  text-books! 

I shall  assume  that  I need  not  dwell  further  on  what  I have 
called  the  ideal  way  of  teaching  the  art  of  Rhetoric  in  the  high 
schools,  on  the  possibilities  that  lie  latent  there.  I have  merely 
to  apologize  for  the  lack  of  discernment  and  logic  of  the  Uni- 
versity of  Oregon  in  requiring  a test  examination  or  a course  in 
Rhetoric  from  a body  of  students  that  has  fathomed  the  mysteries 
of  the  subject  for  many  years.  Still,  the  test  and  requirement 
should  not  be  taken  too  seriously;  they  are  merely  vouchers  of 
deposit.  An  adequately  trained  student  need  fear  nothing.  If 
he  passes  the  simple  test,  he  has  merely  vindicated  both  himself 
and  his  instruction.  The  department  of  Rhetoric  at  the  university 
is  sorry  to  lose  him,  but  it  releases  him  from  dabbling  further  into 
a subject  he  already  knows.  He  is  free  to  range  at  will  among 
his  predilections. 

There  is,  to  be  sure,  a bothersome  fly  in  the  ointment.  Prospec- 
tive students  rarely  pass  the  test.  Well,  perhaps  it  has  been  too 
technical;  it  has  placed  too  great  emphasis  on  the  students’  mem- 
ory, and  memory  is  too  fierce  a monster  to  handle  without  armor. 
We  are  going  to  change  all  that  in  Oregon;  we  are  going  to  make 
the  test  easier,  just  a casual  review  of  grammar — punctuation, 
sentence  structure,  and  the  like  (these  the  students  know  from 
the  grades  up) — and  then  a question  or  two  to  bring  out  the 
students’  ability  to  develop  a theme  drawn  from  the  years  of  their 
experience.  All  the  tests  I have  seen  do  precisely  this;  but  we 


13 


are  going  to  make  ours  easier;  and  if  the  marking  has  heretofore 
been  too  severe,  we'll  mark  only  the  mistakes  and  the  incoherences. 

Yet  we  must,  I judge,  be  a little  more  explicit  and  come  to  a 
definite  understanding.  For  we  are  facing,  as  they  say  in  the 
greater  world — we  are  facing,  not  a theory,  but  a condition.  The 
students  present  themselves  for  admission  to  the  university  at  a 
fairly  mature  age,  more  mature,  in  fact,  from  what  is  at  present 
required  of  them,  than  seems  actually  necessary ; they  come  decently 
and  conventionally  clothed;  they  display  no  visible  signs  of  mental 
aberration.  They  scribble  on  their  test  with  perfect  aplomb. 
Occasionally,  to  be  sure,  there  steals  over  a face  a twinge  of  agony, 
but  nothing  that  would  indicate  the  need  of  a physician.  They 
have,  on  the  whole,  taken  examinations  before.  The  papers  are 
received  with  deference,  and  the  thing  is  over. 

Whence  does  madness  come,  the  disease  that  gnaws  at  the 
brain  all  unawares?  The  patient  “falls  into  a sadness,  then  into 
a fast,  thence  to  a watch,  then  into  a weakness,  thence  to  a light- 
ness, and  by  this  declension  into  a madness  wherein  now  he  raves 
and  all  we  mourn  for."  The  papers  that  have  been  handed  in 
reveal  a brain&torm  as  acute  as  Hamlet's.  No  bacchanalian  orgy 
could  show  a wider  range  of  improprieties.  And  yet  the  madness 
must  be  partly  feigned.  The  students,  as  they  pass  from  the 
room,  commit  no  unseemly  barbarities.  They  are  hailed  by  their 
comrades  in  perfect  confidence  and  fellowship.  And  their  future 
actions,  though  not  always  above  suspicion,  perhaps,  are  in  no 
way  distinguishable  from  the  actions  of  their  brethren.  But  why 
should  they  feign  madness? 

That  question  brings  me  back  again  to  the  problem  that  I have 
been  endeavoring  to  discuss.  And  now  we  shall  have  to  say  good- 
bye to  our  beautiful  theory,  and  deal  at  close  quarters  with  the 
condition.  Let  me  begin  by  quoting  a paper  delivered  to  me  by 
a high  school  teacher. 

“Every  Wednesday  evening  I sit  down  to  a pile  of  some  twenty- 
five  papers  and  a growing  sense  of  despair.  The  papers  are  the 
weekly  compositions  of  my  class  in  English.  As  I read  them,  I 
wonder  how  any  one  can  spend  nine  years  in  school  and  yet  arrive 
at  no  working  knowledge  of  the  principles  of  English  grammar 
and  their  application.  Grammar  seems  to  have  become  an  obsolete 
study.  Spelling,  also,  has  been  abolished  from  the  public  school 


14 


curricula,  and  care  in  orthography  is  beneath  the  notice  of  our 
twentieth  century  students.  The  majority  of  my  class  seem  lack- 
ing in  a proper  imagination,  or,  worse  still,  have  not  the  power 
to  transmit  to  paper  the  thoughts  which  they  have.  I find  un- 
limited need  of  patience  and  red  ink,  but  my  criticisms  are  use- 
less. The  next  papers  will  be  little  better  than  these.  My  pupils 
show  no  disposition  to  profit  by  past  mistakes.” 

This  scripture  reading  offers  me  the  theme  of  my  further 
discourse.  From  it  I shall  choose  my  text,  and,  as  I have  already 
violated  custom  by  imbedding  the  text  in  the  middle  of  the  sermon, 
I shall  presume  still  further  to  violate  it  by  not  adhering  to  a 
strict  division  of  topics.  The  situation  revealed  in  the  sentences 
quoted  is  manifestly  real.  Plenty  of  teachers  are  undergoing  a 
similar  experience.  How  shall  the  teacher  in  Rhetoric  meet  her 
problem?  Apparently  she  is  held  responsible — and  here  we  must 
not  forget  that,  there  are  many  and  an  increasing  number  of 
exceptions — she  is  held  responsible  for  the  students'  use  of  English. 
The  burden  that  all  should  bear  has  been  shifted  to  her  shoulders. 
But,  perhaps,  for  this  situation,  the  other  teachers  are  not  wholly 
to  blame.  I grant  that  they  are  not,  wholly.  The  disease  has  a 
first  cause,  which  I may  touch  upon  later.  Meanwhile  the  teacher 
of  Rhetoric  can  relieve  the  situation  by  assuming  a few  pretty 
definite  tasks.  Some  of  these  tasks  will  be  largely  disciplinary, 
that,  for  instance,  of  clearing  the  students'  mind  of  all  vague 
notions  of  punctuation. 

1.  In  the  first  place,  punctuation  is  nothing  if  not  structural. 
There  exist,  to  be  sure,  other  varieties,  such  as  rhetorical  punctua- 
tion and,  what  may  be  termed,  idiomatic  punctuation.  By  this 
latter  class  I mean  punctuation  that  is  not  readily  self-revealed. 
Who  can  tell  for  instance,  structurally,  how  “Resolved,  That  we 
burn  our  books  on  Rhetoric”  should  be  punctuated.  This  kind  of 
punctuation,  if  learned  at  all,  will  have  to  be  memorized.  It 
admits,  however,  of  diversity  in  usage  and  constant  simplification; 
it  is  becoming  all  the  time  more  reasonable.  Together  with  rhetori- 
cal punctuation,  that  is,  punctuation  employed  most  frequently  in 
imaginative  writing  for  subtle  effects — together  with  this  rhetorical 
class,  it  constitutes  hardly  a hundredth  part  of  all  punctuation,  a 
fairly  inappreciable  amount.  The  rest  is  purely  structural ; it 
is  based,  like  grammar,  on  reason.  In  fact,  it  is  grammar,  nothing 
else. 


15 


But  this  should  have  been  learned  in  the  grades.  Of  course  it 
should,  and  it  should  be  learned  in  the  high  schools  too,  and  it 
will  have  to  be  learned  over  again  in  the  university.  I could 
flunk,  if  I chose,  a fairly  advanced  class  in  reasonable  structural 
punctuation.  Grammar,  we  remember,  has  some  of  the  qualities 
of  porous  plaster — it  is  perennially  adhesive.  We  cannot  tear  it 
away  from  us  in  a lifetime.  And  yet,  as  my  scripture  lesson 
affirms,  it  seems  to  have  become  an  obsolete  study. 

A student  tells  me  that  a teacher  informed  her  that  people 
were  punctuating  much  less  than  they  used  to.  I shouldn’t  be  at 
all  surprised.  Still,  if  punctuation  is  decadent,  one  would  like 
to  know  among  what  class  of  people  it  is  decadent,  and  under 
what  conditions. 

“Oh,  my  dear  young  friend!”  replied  Mr.  Stiggins  (only  he 
didn’t  reply  quite  this),  “my  dear  young  friend,  all  punctuations 
are  vanities.” 

“Too  true;  too  true  indeed,”  said  Mrs.  Weller,  murmuring  a 
groan  and  shaking  her  head  assentingly. 

“Veil,”  said  Sam,  “I  des-say  they  may  be,  Sir;  but  vich  is 
your  partickler  wanity.  Vich  wanity  do  you  like  the  flavor  on 
best,  Sir?” 

If  punctuations  are  vain,  one  would  like  to  know  which  par- 
ticular ones  are  the  vainest.  Is  it  semicolons  or  is  it  commas? 
As  any  good  piece  of  writing  is  fairly  riddled  with  both,  an 
aggressive  statement  on  this  subject  would  be  of  more  than  pass- 
ing value. 

2.  One  important  difference  between  the  present  method  of 
teaching  Rhetoric  and  the  method  employed  some  decades  ago 
lies  in  the  amount  of  writing  called  for.  Formerly  the  pupils 
were  required  to  present  a half  dozen  or  so  long  papers  a year. 
These  were  very  frequently  on  “literary”  topics;  the  work  was 
exacted  by  the  teacher  of  English;  the  complete  oversight  of  the 
work  was,  as  it  is  today,  in  that  teacher’s  hands.  From  what  we 
can  gather,  great  weight  was  placed  on  these  performances;  they 
were  overhauled  with  a good  deal  of  care. 

Nowadays,  however,  courses  in  daily  theme  writing  have  all 
but  forced  their  way  into  high  school  curricula.  And  here,  when 
this  practice  is  co-existent  with  the  longer  papers,  there  appears 
to  be  great  gain.  Not  only  is  the  student  led  to  apply  the  whole- 


16 


some  maxim  Nullus  dies  sine  lined,  but  he  is  forced  to  write  from 
a wider  experience;  he  must  search  his  life  more  diligently  for 
topics;  they  will  perforce  be  other  than  literary.  And  he  will 
also  come  to  see  how  interesting  an  apparently  narrow  topic  may 
be  made;  his  work  will  become  less  thin,  his  paragraphs  fuller 
and  more  compact.  He  will  perchance  be  better  equipped  to  enter 
vocations  where  frequent  written  expression  is  demanded. 

There  is,  however,  in  the  practice  of  frequent  writing,  a distinct 
danger,  particularly  to  students — and  these  will  form  at  present, 
probably,  a majority  of  the  average  high  school  class — who  are 
incompetent.  In  other  words,  with  frequent  writing  there  should 
be  established  a system  of  frequent  consultations.  Not  that  every 
scrap  a student  submits  need  be  gone  over  with  him  personally. 
Sometimes  two  or  three  representative  papers  taken  up  and  dis- 
cussed in  class  will  answer  every  purpose.  But  when  one  is  be- 
hind a runaway  horse,  one  does  not  usually  essay  to  check  his 
flight  by  giving  him  the  rein.  Bad  style  is  self -propagating,  like 
panic.  The  papers  of  a student  whose  thoughts  are  confused  and 
whose  style  is  therefore  confounded,  or  the  papers  of  a student 
whose  style  is  confounded  without  his  thought  being  utterly  con- 
fused— and  many  such  students  exist — should  never  drift  uncere- 
moniously into  the  waste  paper  basket.  And  yet  I have  heard 
this  very  thing  advocated,  not  perhaps  in  just  this  way;  still  it 
is  often  advocated  most  solemnly  and  amid  voiced  approval.  And 
some  of  my  most  awkward  swordsmen  have  parried  my  criticism 
by  coolly  retorting  that  they  had  written  three  themes  a week 
the  year  before.  It  doesn't  take  much  of  an  expert  to  diagnose 
a case  like  that.  Those  three  themes  a week  had  simply  run  wild; 
the  teacher  had  not  had  the  time  or  had  not  taken  the  time  to 
subdue  them.  A teacher  is  therefore  obliged,  in  spite  of  herself, 
to  gauge  the  amount  of  written  work  required  of  her  students 
by  the  amount  of  time  she  has  at  her  command  to  spend  in  con- 
sultation with  them.  I do  not  maintain,  of  course,  that  the  ideal 
writer  is  one  who  comes  to  the  dinner  table  rubbing  his  hands 
and  exclaiming,  “Today  I have  achieved  a sentence."  Even  Rhetoric 
has  its  moderations,  and  a sluggish  pondering  is  not  one  of  them. 
Frequent  writing  is  in  general  valuable  practice.  But  unless  the 
student  is  carefully  watched,  his  seeming  gain  in  facility  of 
expression  may  be  more  than  offset  by  vicious  habits — a general 
clumsiness  in  structure  and  great  redundancy. 


17 


3.  By  insisting  endlessly,  then,  on  correct  grammar,  and  by 
stimulating  to  the  limit  of  thoroughness  in  correction  the  practice 
of  frequent  writing,  remembering  all  the  time  that  words  stand 
for  ideas,  the  teacher  of  English  is  performing  her  duty  by  her 
students  in  Rhetoric;  she  is  putting  them  in  a way  to  express 
themselves  correctly  and  fluently  in  her  own  and  in  other  classes. 
This  is  undoubtedly  the  general  aim  of  every  teacher  in  Rhetoric, 
and  these  particular  methods  of  realizing  her  ambitions  have  been 
in  her  mind  all  along.  They  need  not  be  dwelt  upon  more  explicitly. 
But  she  is  also  searching  for  more  tangible  ways  of  co-ordinating 
her  work  with  that  of  the  students'  entire  range  of  studies. 
Since  she  has  been  shoved  into  the  firing  line,  she  wants  to  know 
precisely  what  is  expected  of  her.  How  shall  she  give  to  her 
task  greater  reality?  My  answer  to  this  question  is,  simply  by 
lifting  the  pupils'  other  work  into  her  own  class.  And  this  will 
in  no  way  bring  a change  into  her  methods;  on  the  other  hand 
it  may  serve  to  stimulate  the  students'  appreciation  of  her  discipline. 
A student  whose  first  interests  lie,  say,  in  Mathematics  or  in 
Zoology  or  in  Civil  Government  should  be  encouraged  to  express 
over  again  in  significant  form  the  thoughts  and  discussions  that 
have  engaged  his  mind  in  these  respective  classes.  He  is  thus 
killing  two  birds  with  one  stone;  by  the  very  process  of  salient 
utterance  he  is  not  only  cleansing  his  brain,  but  he  is  applying 
the  result  of  this  cleansing  in  a very  patent  way  to  his  whole 
high  school  course.  And  such  an  accomplishment  is  naturally 
expected  from  his  study  of  Rhetoric. 

This  procedure,  to  be  sure,  of  taking  over  the  material  of  the 
other  studies  into  the  class  of  Rhetoric  is  not  clear  of  objections, 
which  may  as  well  be  fairly  stated.  What,  for  instance,  if  the 
student  has  interests  that  burden  his  mind  much  more  seriously 
than  any  of  his  studies.  A burning  topic  with  him  may  be  the 
prospects  of  the  football  eleven,  or  the  care  of  bees,  or  the  town 
water  supply.  Zoology  may  have  no  glory  compared  with  these. 
In  such  a case,  but  one  course  is  open  to  the  teacher  of  Rhetoric. 
The  students'  choice  must  have  the  right  of  way.  The  chances  are 
that  he  will  discuss  much  more  to  the  purpose  a subject  of  his 
own  selection  than  one  thrust  upon  him.  To  be  sure,  a clever 
teacher  often  hits  upon  a topic  that  awakens  a pupil's  dormant 
interest,  that  seems  to  arouse  his  mind  from  slumbers.  Yet,  as 
time  goes  on,  it  is  only  to  the  more  backward  pupils  or  for  class 
2 


18 


exercises  that  topics  need  be  assigned.  It  is,  indeed,  part  of  the 
student’s  business  to  find  his  own  subjects,  to  discover  what  his 
experiences  really  are.  But,  again,  if  he  writes  frequently,  he 
is  likely  in  time  to  run  dry;  the  domain  of  his  hobbies  may  become 
deforested.  It  is  at  this  moment  that  the  teacher  appears  with 
her  suggestions  of  a closer  co-ordination  of  studies.  In  any  case, 
however,  among  her  growing  pupils,  the  teacher  is  rather  more 
solicitous  about  their  expression,  the  intensity  of  their  interest, 
their  plan  of  presentation,  than  about  their  erudition.  An  ade- 
quate statement  of  a student’s  conclusions  on  the  book  he  has  just 
finished,  or  on  a character  in  that  book,  is  quite  as  important  to 
her  as  a statement  on  the  behavior  of  protoplasms.  In  either  case 
the  processes  of  discussion  remain  the  same;  both  topics  have 
equal  significance. 

At  this  point  I wish  to  leave  for  a moment  the  discussion  of 
Rhetoric  as  related  specifically  to  high  schools  in  order  that  later, 
perhaps,  I may  take  it  up  again  more  positively.  Suppose,  then, 
we  enter  upon  a wider  discussion  by  quarreling  with  my  final 
assertion  in  the  preceding  paragraph.  Are  two  topics,  both  of 
them  worthy  and  expressive  of  the  students’  interest,  of  equal 
significance  to  the  teacher  of  Rhetoric?  Here  I am  afraid  we 
are  on  debatable  ground.  In  university  circles,  surely,  such  a 
statement  would  provoke  dissent.  A teacher  has  recently  phrased 
his  objection  to  this  theory  as  follows:* 

“The  main  function  of  the  vernacular  is  the  communication  of 
truth;  in  a given  case  the  importance  of  the  function  is  measured 
by  the  importance  of  the  truth  to  be  conveyed.  Since  the  posses- 
sion of  truth  may  not  be  taken  for  granted  in  the  student,  the 
teaching  of  expression  must  never  be  made  a primary  aim  of 
any  course.  When  we  shift  the  emphasis  and  regard  expression 
as  a means  instead  of  an  end,  the  question  becomes,  not  Can  we 
teach  the  art  of  composition?  but  Can  we  teach  by  means  of 
composition?  that  is,  can  we  impart  true  insight  by  this  means? 
When  the  emphasis  is  thus  shifted,  it  becomes  evident  that  English 
composition  cannot  safely  be  used  as  an  instrument  of  education 
except  in  testing  the  students’  insight  into  a definite  and  connected 


♦Professor  Lane  Cooper,  in  a paper  on  the  Teaching  of  Written  Com- 
position. read  before  the  Modern  Language  Association,  at  Ithaca,  Decem- 
ber, 1909. 


19 


subject,  where  the  teacher  has  first  hand  knowledge,  and  the  student 
is  acquiring  it.” 

These  sentences  are  based  on  the  general  assertion  that  “the 
welfare  of  the  state  and  the  happiness  of  the  individual  are  essen- 
tially promoted  by  the  attainment  of  insight  rather  than  by 
expression.” 

I do  not  propose  at  the  moment  to  engage  in  serious  quarrel 
with  either  the  thesis  or  the  conclusions  of  this  utterance.  They 
run  quite  too  parallel  with  views  I have  already  put  forward 
to  admit  of  disclaimer.  They  simply  criticise,  in  part,  in  a 
different  way  the  common  notion  about  Rhetoric,  that  it  exists 
as  other  studies,  to  be  taken  up  exclusively  at  certain  hours  and 
under  special  teachers.  The  theory,  of  course,  is  not  new.  In 
colleges  a grumbling  against  this  prevailing  conception  of  Rhetoric 
has  often  been  heard  of  late,  especially  from  the  faculty  of 
Engineering.  “You  teach  our  students,”  they  say,  “how  to  dabble 
in  description,  how  to  plot  stories;  you  seem  quite  enthusiastic 
over  Mr.  A.'s  paper  on  the  art  of  clam-digging.  How  is  that 
going  to  benefit  Mr.  A.  in  presenting  the  advantages  of  his  new 
motor  engine?”  And  in  some  colleges,  there  have  been  estab- 
lished, under  special  teachers,  classes  in  “Engineers'  English.” 

One  might  ask,  to  be  sure,  Why  special  teachers?  Why  do  not 
you,  each  one  of  you,  teach  Engineers'  English?  Or,  if  you  haven't 
time,  have  you  seen  to  it  carefully  that  these  teachers  of  Engineers' 
English  are  themselves  engineers?  If  you  have  not,  can  it  be 
that  you  are  still  thinking  of  Rhetoric  as  a very  extraordinary 
thing  and  not  essentially  pervasive?  Still,  I do  not  propose  to 
rail  at  the  scoffings  of  the  Engineers.  Their  criticisms  may  come 
from  a wrong  conception  of  what  the  department  of  Rhetoric  is 
actually  about;  yet  their  criticisms  are  wholesome.  We  want 
them  to  be  louder;  we  want  to  see  the  smoke  rise  from  this  whole 
battlefield  of  Rhetoric.  How  many  teachers  of  composition  can 
fairly  criticise  a paper  on  the  steam  pump?  Does  not  the  vocabulary 
of  the  engineers  tread  ways  that  are  dark?  In  vain  the  teacher 
thunders,  “Pretend  I don't  know  what  you  are  talking  about; 
treat  me  as  if  I were  ignorant;  be  interesting.”  “To  be  sure,” 
the  student  replies,  “but  this  is  to  go  before  a body  of  experts; 
they  are  quite  mature;  they  vote.”  “But  I am  not  responsible  for 
your  facts,”  the  teacher  cries,  “here  are  your  authorities;  you 
have  stated  them  as  I told  you  to.”  “And  the  expression?”  “Oh, 


20 


the  expression  goes  well  enough,  I guess — here,  by  the  way,  is  an 
is  for  an  are;  you  want  to  be  careful  about  things  like  that.  But 
all  this  lingo  is  foreign  to  me;  let’s  look  over  your  plan  of  pre- 
sentation.” And  the  student  goes  away,  wondering  if,  after  all, 
the  teacher  is  in  a position  to  pronounce  upon  the  plan. 

But  now,  to  complete  the  circle  of  our  digression,  to  what  extent 
does  the  condition  above  mentioned  obtain  in  the  high  schools? 
Or,  more  specifically,  is  the  teacher  of  English,  upon  whose  shoul- 
ders the  burden  of  teaching  Rhetoric  has  fallen — is  she  in  a 
position  to  allow  her  pupils  to  range  at  will  among  subjects  of 
which  she  has  no  first  hand  knowledge.  Such  a subject  might  be 
Zoology,  or  it  might  be  apiculture,  football,  water-supply;  or  per- 
haps she  has  never  read  the  book  that  the  pupil  proposes  to  write 
upon.  Evidently,  to  do  her  work  properly,  the  springs  of  her 
wisdom  must  be  eternally  gushing.  Not  only  is  she  expected  to 
give  her  pupils  the  finishing  touch  in  the  use  of  their  mother 
tongue,  but  she  is  herself  expected  to  read  all  things,  study  all 
things,  know  all  things.  Figuratively,  she  is  up  a blind  alley, 
infested  with  prowlers,  and  her  egress  is  precarious. 

Well,  perhaps  it’s  not  quite  so  bad  as  that.  To  begin  with, 
only  one  of  the  subjects  just  mentioned  demands  of  the  teacher 
what  might  technically  be  called  first-hand  knowledge.  For  the 
others,  a general  knowledge  and  an  open  mind  will  do  for  the 
nonce.  One  is  hardly  obliged  to  have  kept  bees  or  to  have  studied 
deeply  the  problem  of  water  supply  to  be  in  a position  to  judge 
whether  or  not  a high  school  student’s  paper  on  apiculture  or 
on  the  town  water  is  well  done;  football  is  in  the  very  air  one 
breathes.  I have  found,  as  one  naturally  would  find,  that  I am 
at  an  evident  disadvantage  in  not  having  read  the  book  that  a 
student  is  writing  about.  Still  I realize  well  enough  that  it  is 
impossible  to  include  the  reading  of  all  such  books  in  my  day’s 
work;  and  it  would  be  absurd  to  narrow  the  students’  reading 
to  my  own  limited  range.  A like  embarrassment  would  come  to 
teachers  in  other  subjects  than  English.  Moreover,  in  most  sub- 
jects, the  knowledge  of  the  teacher  of  Rhetoric  is  doubtless  much 
larger  than  the  pupils’.  Her  career  at  college  has  given  her  a 
wider  outlook. 

Still,  there  are  likely  to  remain  a few  subjects,  subjects  of  a 
special  vocabulary,  of  which  the  teachers’  apprehension  is  less  than 
limited.  I hinted  a moment  ago  at  a supposititious  essay  on  the  be- 


21 


haviours  of  protoplasms.  Now  my  own  knowledge  of  these  “viscid 
cells”  is  as  vain  as  their  habits  are  said  to  be  peculiar.  If  I were 
convinced  that  a student  really  knew  whereof  he  was  writing,  I 
might  not  bestir  myself  greatly  to  find  quarrel  in  his  lack  of  clear- 
ness to  me. 

But  let  us  not  be  satisfied  to  rest  quite  here.  How  many  pupils 
are  likely  to  risk  the  presentation  of  a subject  of  this  character? 
And,  say  one  did,  are  not  the  chances  pretty  even  that  it  is  not 
his  subject  but  his  brain  that  is  protoplasmic?  Or,  putting  it 
another  way,  would  he  possess  a sufficiently  extended  vocabulary 
or  command  of  sentence  structure  to  admit  of  his  making  himself 
clear  anyway?  He  might;  yet  in  the  great  majority  of  cases,  I fear 
that  he  would  have  bitten  off  more  than  he  could  chew.  Fresh- 
men occasionally  write  excellent  themes  on  water  wheels  and  motor 
engines,  and  these  excellent  themes  are,  more  likely  than  not,  per- 
fectly intelligible,  even  to  the  teacher  of  Rhetoric.  And  if  they 
are  not  intelligible,  the  trouble  is  fairly  certain  to  rest  in  the  fact 
that  the  students  are  simply  lacking  in  an  elementary  assimila- 
tion of  their  material,  even  in  the  very  thought  that  might  guide 
their  expression.  Shall  the  teacher  of  English  give  them  both 
words  and  an  understanding?  No  one  else  does,  and  the  classes 
in  Rhetoric  are  large.  Huxley  wrote  on  a piece  of  chalk  and  Tyn- 
dall on  glacier  ice  that  he  may  run  who  readeth  it.  I wonder  if 
the  demand  of  the  teacher  that  abstruse  subjects  be  made  inter- 
esting does  not,  after  all,  give  the  immature  student  his  clue. 
If  a student  does  not  present  a subject  interestingly,  if  he  does  not 
write  to  produce  an  effect  upon  other  minds,  he  either  does  not 
know  his  subject  or  he  has  not  learned  what  expression  means. 
In  the  first  case,  he  better  be  told  to  keep  his  subject  in  abeyance; 
in  the  second  case — well,  he  will  be  told  many  things.  It  is  well, 
of  course,  for  a high  school  student  to  speak  the  truth,  but  unless 
he  can  add  to  what  he  may  think  is  clearness  the  element  of  inter- 
est, he  has  not  made  his  truth  actual.  And  I have  a stout  sus- 
picion that  the  same  rule  will  hold  true  of  the  present  college 
freshmen.  Really  advanced  students,  those  whose  subjects  are  in- 
teresting because  they  are  clear,  whose  style  is  rigorously  concise 
because  their  material  is  thoroughly  assimilated,  are  addressing 
a much  narrower  circle;  they  should  long  ago  have  been  able  to 
earn  their  release  from  a special  Rhetoric  requirement. 


22 


4.  Thus  far,  in  assuming  that  instruction  in  the  unescapable 
art  of  Rhetoric  has  been  relegated,  almost  universally  in  our  high 
schools,  to  the  teacher  of  English,  I have  endeavored  to  indicate 
cursorily  how  she  may  take  up  her  task  with  a mind  both  to  the 
accumulated  ignorance  which  her  pupils  bring  to  her  from  the 
grades,  and  to  their  present  experiences.  If  they  conceive  of 
grammar  as  a dead  and  dismal  science,  made  up  largely  of  rules, 
she  will  embrace  her  opportunity  to  make  it  vital  and  reasonable. 
For  now  the  pupils  are  in  a way  to  apply  their  grammar  con- 
cretely; they  are  about  to  understand  how  essential  its  seeming 
artificialities  really  are.  In  her  hands,  grammar  will  become  a 
far  more  advanced  study  than  it  had  the  air  of  being  heretofore; 
a thorough  knowledge  of  it  on  her  part  will  spare  her  much  beat- 
ing about  the  bush.  Then,  in  calling  for  as  frequent  writing  as 
her  time  warrants,  she  will  stimulate  her  pupils  to  open  their 
minds  to  the  diversity  of  their  experiences;  they  will  perforce  draw 
upon  their  other  studies  to  help  them  out.  And  she  will  give  them 
every  encouragement  to  unlock  the  gates  of  their  erudition.  Under 
the  conviction,  however,  that  she  is  intelligent  and  alive,  she  will 
insist  that  a presentation  of  these  subjects  be  both  intelligible  and 
interesting;  she  will  take  a firm  stand  there.  And,  as  she  is  also 
half  persuaded  that  style  and  thought  are  inseparable,  she  will 
be  further  importunate  that  exactness  and  finish  in  expression  are 
not  devices  for  ornament,  but  an  essential  part  of  the  thought  to  be 
conveyed. 

Possibly,  as  time  goes  on,  her  work  may  become  less  catholic 
and  more  intensive.  The  grades  may  give  her  better  equipped 
pupils,  and  her  fellow  teachers  may  spring  to  a realization  that 
perhaps  Rhetoric  is  their  business  too.  Signs  are  multiplying. 
In  a number  of  High  Schools  and  Normal  Schools  there  has  been 
introduced  a more  extended  scheme  of  teaching  Rhetoric.  There 
the  work  has  been  assigned  to  a special  teacher  whose  office  it  is 
to  examine  the  written  product  not  only  in  the  Literature  class 
but  in  all  the  classes.  Special  appointments  at  designated  periods 
are  made  with  the  pupils;  there  the  work,  whatever  it  may  be,  is 
gone  over  and  criticised.  If  a paper  on  an  examination,  say,  in 
Geography,  has  been  poorly  executed,  the  pupil  is  brought  to  ac- 
count; the  mark  is  withheld  until  the  paper  is  rewritten  and  ap- 
pears again  in  adequate  form. 


23 


The  aim  of  such  a scheme  is  apparent.  Under  the  connivance 
of  the  teachers,  the  pupils  are  likely  to  come  to  a fuller  apprecia- 
tion of  what  the  study  of  Rhetoric  means.  The  teachers  assigned 
to  the  special  work  have  naturally  had  an  appropriate  training  in 
composition.  But  herein  lies,  I should  say,  a weakness  of  this 
method,  not  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  pupils,  but  of  the  teach- 
ers. Would  not  the  shifting  of  the  burden  still  go  on,  and  might 
not  the  teachers  themselves  still  be  inclined  to  regard  Rhetoric  as 
something  extraneous  to  their  work?  If  such  a scheme  were 
adopted — and  it  has  much  in  its  favor — I suggest  that  the  teacher 
of  English,  at  least,  be  let  alone.  She,  above  all  others,  perhaps, 
should  always  consider  Rhetoric  as  part  and  parcel  of  her  sub- 
ject. Her  opportunities  are  too  abundant  to  be  slighted.  The 
special  teacher,  then,  might  give  her  time  to  the  other  classes, 
until  the  hour  arrives  when  every  teacher  is  in  a position  to  as- 
sume the  responsibility  of  caring  for  her  pupils’  written  work.  As 
an  approach  to  this  end,  the  special  teacher — some  one  apt  and 
trained  and  interested  in  composition — might  be  selected  from  a 
department  other  than  English.  In  a following  year,  the  choice 
might  fall  on  a teacher  from  still  another  department;  every 
teacher,  in  fact,  might  live  in  the  expectation  of  being  appointed 
to  this  special  work.  If  the  teachers  proved  inefficient,  why  then 
the  matter  might  go  before  the  schoolboard.  And  there  — worthy 
consequence — might  ensue  a discussion  of  increased  taxation,  a 
fairer  apportionment  of  time,  and  larger  salaries ; and  the  mil- 
lenium  might  be  drawing  near  when  no  special  teachers  of  Rhetoric 
would  be  required.  Meanwhile  the  Holy  City  is  so  far  on  the 
horizon  that  it  looks  as  if  the  special  teacher  might  be  of  great 
cheer  to  the  teacher  of  English  in  her  arduous  journey,  until  they 
meet  other  seraphic  groups;  then  the  special  teacher  might  spirit 
herself  away,  or  blend. 

5.  Heretofore  I have  been  discussing,  or  at  least  have  implied 
in  my  discussion,  the  expository  theme.  And  this  I have  done 
mainly  for  the  reason  that  it  is  in  her  pupils’  expository  work 
that  the  teacher  of  Rhetoric  is  brought  face  to  face  with  the  de- 
mand made  upon  her  by  the  other  teachers.  They  want  to  see  tiie 
results  of  her  training  in  their  classes,  and  if  they  do  not  note  an 
improvement  in  the  pupils  she  sends  to  them,  they  will  naturally 
bring  to  question  the  usefulness  of  her  methods.  That  they  should 
share  in  her  work  has  not  yet  appealed  to  them  as  especially 


24 


practicable.  To  make  her  labor  effective,  then,  in  the  other 
classes,  is  one  of  her  most  vexing  problems.  And  the  problem  is 
further  complicated  by  thd  fact  that  expository  writing  is  the  most 
difficult  kind  of  writing  to  make  interesting  and  vital.  It  demands 
primarily  clear  thinking,  and  clear  thinking,  if  it  come  to  a per- 
son at  all,  comes  late.  “Nothing  is  harder  to  write  than  a primer” 
says  Lafcadio  Hearn  in  a recently  published  letter.  “Simplicity 
combined  with  force  is  required;  and  that  combination  requires 
immense  power.”  To  be  sure,  high  school  pupils  are  not  called 
upon  to  write  primers;  yet  in  expository  work  they  are  neverthe- 
less expected  to  address  themselves  to  the  primer  writing  state  of 
mind.  What  immense  effort,  then,  is  demanded  of  immature  pupils 
to  give  adequate  explanations!  Their  power  of  reporting  their 
sensations  is  far  more  native  to  them  than  their  power  of  organ- 
izing their  thoughts;  their  real  world  is  sensuous,  not  intellectual. 
To  get  them  to  express  ideas  and  not  wholly  impressions  brings 
their  teacher  to  all  manner  of  shifts.  And  yet  school  is  the  place 
where  they  are  supposed  to  gain  ideas;  this  phase  of  their  writing 
may  not  be  ignored.  The  difficulty  here  involved  and  its  solution 
form,  indeed,  the  very  core  of  pedagogy.  And  thus  it  is  that  I do 
not  think  the  teacher  of  Rhetoric  need  be  over  solicitous  about 
pressing  too  far  what  I have  called  the  co-ordination  of  her  work 
with  her  pupils’  other  studies.  If  she  can  give  them  the  method 
of  exposition  in  developing  a subject  like  How  to  Handle  a Boat, 
in  which  their  interests  are  far  other  than  intellectual,  she  might 
well  leave  drier  subjects  alone.  Full  answers  to  definite  questions 
such  as  an  examination  calls  for  would  furnish  them  ample  op- 
porunity  to  be  both  dry  and  clear.  Larger  expository  work  might 
well  come  toward  the  end  of  their  high  school  course.  As  for 
argument,  a specialized  form  of  expository  writing, — this  has  nowa- 
days the  stimulus  of  debate;  outside  of  this  stimulus,  however, 
the  difficulties  of  getting  much  of  value  from  immature  students 
are  of  the  same  nature  as  the  difficulties  involved  in  exposition 
proper.  Expository  writing  seems  best  evoked  through  a question 
and  then  another  question — a linked  series;  topics  might  be  sug- 
gested, perhaps,  in  the  interrogatory  form.  Indeed  this  is  the 
very  way  in  which  Socrates,  that  supreme  expositor,  stimulated 
thoughts  in  the  Athenian  youth. 

6.  Socrates,  his  friends  and  judges,  and  the  young  men  of 
Athens  enacted  their  drama,  as  we  know,  in  a little  corner  of  a vast 


25 


wilderness  of  a continent  long  before  the  dawn  of  what  we  are 
pleased  to  call  modern  civilization.  The  definitions  those  Greeks  ar- 
rived at  do  not  edify  us  greatly  today.  Many  things  they  argued 
about  we  take  for  granted,  and  much  that  they  guessed  at  we  still 
recognize  as  only  guesses.  Our  view  is  loftily  scientific.  But 
what  Socrates  did  and  said  we  still  read  about,  when  we  have  time, 
and  we  still  are  interested.  We  are  not  blind  to  the  fact  that  he 
possessed  an  unusual  personality;  we  are  incurably  enamored  of 
a hero.  Then,  too,  the  accounts  of  Socrates  and  his  friends  give  us 
satisfying  glimpses  of  an  elder  period,  and  they  also  usher  us  into 
the  presence  of  a remarkably  idealistic  philosophy.  Yet  neither 
the  love  of  a hero,  nor  of  history,  nor  of  philosophy  offers  an  ade- 
quate explanation  why,  for  instance,  a class  of  youngsters  will 
listen  with  bated  breath  to  the  words  of  Plato  or  Xenophon  on  the 
daily  exigencies  of  an  old  Greek  sophist.  Other  chords  of  interest 
must  have  been  touched,  none  other,  we  imagine,  than  that  the 
words  and  acts  of  Socrates  happen  to  be  reported  in  a most 
singular  way — emotionally.  These  two  contemporaries  of  Socrates 
evidently  knew  how  to  write;  they  were  creating  literature;  the 
youngsters  are  hanging  on  the  words  of  great  descriptive  artists. 

What  description  is,  let  us  not  attempt  to  define  too  closely.  We 
should  only  be  traversing  over  again  ground  that  myriads  of 
text  books  have  already  covered.  I wish  merely  to  draw  atten- 
tion for  a brief  space  to  a certain  application  of  what  I shall  name 
the  descriptive  principle. 

For  one  thing  descriptive  writing  is  not  ornamental.  To  stu- 
dents, no  such  thing  need  be  suggested  as  an  adorned,  a “flowery” 
style.  To  quote  Hearn  again,  “A  pictorial  style  is  only  justifiable 
in  the  treatment  of  rare,  exotic  subjects”  and  the  treatment  of 
such  subjects  a high  school  student,  I take  it,  is  constrained  to 
avoid.  He  will,  if  the  spirit  moves  him,  find  abundant  oppor- 
tunity for  that  kind  of  writing  when  all  schools  are  behind  him. 
For  his  immediate  purposes  the  descriptive  or  emotional  element 
in  what  he  writes  may  be  defined  as  that  quality  which  gives  his 
expressions  vitality. 

There  are  many  curious  notions  about  concerning  description 
— much  lookings  out  of  car  windows  and  gazings  from  the  tops 
of  hills.  All  this  is  well.  There  can  be  no  offense  in  looking  and 


26 


gazing  provided  one  actually  sees  something.  Wordsworth  looked 
at 

“A  host,  of  golden  daffodils 
Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze.” 

and  Ruskin  gazed  at  a cathedral  until  he  saw  “the  crests  of  the 
arches  break  into  marble  foam,  and  toss  themselves  far  into  the 
blue  sky  in  flashes  and  wreaths  of  sculptured  spray.” 

But  what  shall  we  say  of  a paper  on  a scientific  subject,  a 
sermon  or  an  oration  packed  full  of  similes  and  illustrations,  of 
“pretty”  language,  which  hang  on  the  theme  like  so  much  alien 
moss,  every  adornment  weakening  the  effect  striven  for?  I have 
listened  to  such  papers,  such  sermons,  such  orations  frequently, 
and  have  been  led  to  wonder  if  the  writers,  the  preachers,  the 
orators,  had  not  been  leaning  without  avail  out  of  a car  window, 
had  not  been  adoring  indiscriminately,  perchance,  two  moons,  one 
real  and  the  other  a painful  hallucination.  And  yet,  these  dis- 
courses, to  have  carried  with  them,  in  the  best  sense  of  these  words, 
a popular  audience  should  have  been  shot  through  with  an  emo- 
tional, a descriptive  element.  The  authors  had  awkwardly  and 
deliberately  appropriated  for  decoration  what  might  have  been 
made  inherent  in  the  theme  itself.  Their  failure,  outwardly  at 
least,  was  due  to  a lack  in  applying  the  descriptive  principle. 

To  illustrate  specifically  what  I mean,  suppose  I quote  a para- 
graph from  a recent  review  of  George  Macaulay  Trevelyan’s  his- 
tory of  “Garibaldi  and  the  Thousand.”* 

“Another  point  to  be  remarked  upon,  because  it  is 
representative,  is  his  accurate  study  of  topography.  He 
traces  the  course  of  the  Thousand  from  Marsala  to 
Palermo  with  the  minuteness  of  a map-maker;  indeed, 
he  has  been  over  the  route  himself,  and  having  an  eye 
for  the  picturesque,  he  relieves  what  might  otherwise 
be  a painstaking  description  of  a military  march  by 
charming  bits  of  local  color.  Yet  in  spite  of  this  gift, 
he  never  indulges  in  fine  writing  for  its  own  sake.  The 
throbbing  passages  come  quite  naturally  and  are  not 
pressed.” 

Here  the  reviewer  has  defined  for  me  indirectly  what  I mean 
by  the  descriptive  principle.  A living  historian  has  worked  upon 


♦New  York  Nation,  February  17,  1910. 


27 


what  appears  to  be  at  first  thought  an  uncompromisingly  dry  sub- 
ject— topography.  And  yet  he  has  thrown  himself  upon  this  ex- 
pository study  so  emotionally  that  it  contains  throbbing  passages, 
and  again  these  passages  bear  no  trace  of  “fine  writing”  but  come 
quite  naturally,  quite  inherently,  and  are  not  pressed. 

Let  us  approach  this  subject  from  still  another  point  of  view. 
I find,  for  instance,  that  pupils  in  the  grades  are  supposed  to  read, 
besides  the  poets  and  story  tellers,  certain  writers  of  exposition 
and  argument, — Emerson,  Webster,  Carlyle,  Macaulay,  Lincoln, 
Burke.  The  list  is  not  a long  one;  other  names  readily  suggest 
themselves,  even  among  American  authors.  Occasionally,  but  not 
often,  great  men  of  action  join  such  a company;  occasionally  too 
philosophers.  Other  historians  besides  Macaulay  and  Carlyle 
could  easily  take  a place  there;  moreover,  the  list  is  quite  barren 
of  theologians  and  popularizers  of  science.  But  whoever  the  men 
are  that  go  to  make  up  such  a group,  the  principle  of  selection 
remains  the  same.  Great  men  they  are,  .of  course,  but  in  so  far 
as  they  appear  in  such  a list,  they  are  there  because  they  are 
masters  of  expression;  they  put  their  thoughts  in  appealing  ways; 
they  create  an  emotional  interest. 

By  way  of  illustration,  I quote,  not  quite  at  random,  a few 
lines  from  an  article  on  science. 

“The  undulating  downs  and  rounded  coombs,  covered 
with  sweet  grassed  turf,  of  our  inland  chalk  country, 
have  a peacefully  domestic  and  mutton  suggesting  pretti- 
ness, but  can  hardly  be  called  either  grand  or  beautiful. 

But  on  our  southern  coasts,  the  wall  sided  cliffs,  many 
hundred  feet  high,  with  vast  needles  and  pinnacles  stand- 
ing out  in  the  sea,  sharp  and  solitary  enough  to  serve 
as  perches  for  the  wary  cormorant,  confer  a wonderful 
beauty  and  grandeur  upon  the  chalk  headlands.  And  in 
the  East,  chalk  has  its  share  in  the  formation  of  some  of 
the  most  venerable  mountain  ranges  such  as  the  Lebanon.” 

These  sentences  are  taken  from  the  early  part  of  an  address 
to  working  men.  The  descriptive  element  approaches  rather  closely 
perhaps  to  what  might  be  called  description  proper,  yet  I am  of 
the  opinion  that  if  these  sentences  were  put  back  again  into  the 
body  of  the  address  they  would  not  strike  one  as  in  the  least  ex- 
traneous; and  the  theme  is  expository.  Huxley  has,  with  no  ap- 
parent thought  of  decoration,  so  identified  himself  emotionally 


28 


with  his  subject  that  he  has  evoked  among  his  listeners  a respon- 
sive interest.  In  other  passages  the  same  effect  might  be  traced 
to  the  employment  of  vivid  words,  figures  of  speech;  throughout, 
the  expositor  is  denying  himself  the  dry  parlance  of  one  who  is 
merely  drawing  conclusions  from  a given  body  of  facts,  has 
stepped  boldly  among  the  writers  to  be  studied  for  style.  Tyn- 
dall writes  a chapter  on  the  Energy  of  Nature,  exact  and  logical 
in  thought  and  structure,  yet  permeated  with  an  almost  poetical 
fervor  of  imagination.  It  ilustrates  admirably,  as  some  one  has 
said,  how  strong  feeling  raises  pure  exposition  to  the  level  of 
literature. 

This  emotional  element  I have  called  the  descriptive  principle. 
In  so  far  as  this  principle  is  teachable,  it  has  much  to  do  with 
strong  active  verbs;  choice,  colored  adjectives;  simplicity,  vigor, 
rhythm, — all  the  paraphernalia,  in  fact,  which  a teacher  of 
Rhetoric  brings  constantly  into  her  class-room  drill.  It  is  this 
descriptive  quality  that  makes  Plato  forever  interesting,  and 
which,  together  with  thfeir  nice  arrangement  of  thought,  makes 
Lincoln  and  Burke  worthy  of  detailed  study.  For,  when  all  is 
said,  it  is  in  the  field  of  descriptive,  emotional  writing  that  the 
teacher  of  Rhetoric  obtains  her  most  useful,  her  most  lasting- 
results;  in  this  field  she  gets  at  her  pupils*  essentially  intimate 
experiences;  here  they  usually  first  come  to  realize  who  they  are; 
here  they  usually  first  attain  a semblance  of  style. 

The  emotional  element,  then,  is  inherent  in  the  best  expres- 
sion; it  is  what  makes  the  thing  presented  live.  The  pupil  scarcely 
discovers  what  is  in  him  until  he  learns  to  yield  his  thought  in 
concise,  pictorial  images.  When  his  emotional  life  is  once  tapped, 
his  vocabulary  becomes  rich  and  varied;  his  vision  presses  upon 
his  thinking.  By  rubbing  the  sleep  out  of  his  eyes,  he  stimulates 
the  cells  of  his  brain. 

So,  perhaps,  when  it's  dark,  he  may  come  to  realize  that  to  him 
night  need  not  always  “reign  supreme,”  nor  when  it's  quiet,  need 
nature  always  hold  “full  sway.”  He  disdains  to  borrow  the  finery 
of  “yonder  huge  oak  overhanging  the  streamlet.”  His  teacher 
will  demand  of  him  if  he  actually  saw  “the  little  stream  jump 
and  laugh  with  renewed  activity,”  or  “mother  nature  gently  spread 
her  pure  white  robe  over  her  many  children.”  And  the  class  will 
question  whether  his  eyes  were  rubbed  advisedly  when  he  tells 


29 


them  that  “the  sun  which  looked  like  a large  ball  of  fire  was  taking 
his  last  look  at  old  mother  earth  before  he  made  his  bow  to  the 
evening  which  already  could  be  seen  approaching  over  the  eastern 
hills.” 

Do  not  misunderstand  me.  I do  not  set  down  these  extracts 
from  students’  themes  as  examples  of  heinous  crimes.  Young  folks 
are  naturally  imitative;  they  delight  in  the  borrowed  dress  of  their 
elders,  and,  besides,  their  fancy  flies  easily  to  grotesque  personifi- 
cation. There  is  much  of  the  Mede  and  Persian  left  in  youth. 
And  when  they  have  had  their  descriptive  revelry,  when,  like 

“Charlotte,  having  seen  his  body 
Borne  before  her  on  a shutter  ” 

like  well  conducted  persons,  they  will  still  go  on  cutting  bread 
and  butter;  their  lives  will  settle  down  to  normal  values.  Yet 
Charlotte’s  vein  (another  Charlotte)  does  not  require  the  en- 
couragement it  too  often  receives  from  her  teachers  of  Rhetoric. 
She  should  be  told  that  personification  is  a pretty  ticklish  instru- 
ment, and  that  when  she  stretches  it  out  to  a lengthened  phrase 
instead  of  half  hiding  it  in  a glowing  verb,  she  is  actually  untrue 
to  things  as  they  are  and  to  herself.  She  is  an  Elizabethan  or  a 
King  Solomon  instead  of  a contemporaneous,  twentieth  century 
girl;  she  has  stolen  a glance  from  an  antique  window. 

When,  therefore,  Charlotte’s  exotic  enthusiasm  has  been  sup- 
pressed, she  is  in  a fair  way  to  be  born  again.  Then  she  will  un- 
derstand, perhaps,  the  fine  condensed  reality,  the  exactness,  in 
the  style  of  the  authors  she  is  reading.  Her  attention  to  this  may 
result  in  a pretty  thorough  self  examination,  and  until  a turn  of 
phrase  or  a figure  becomes  her  own  personal  property,  she  will 
not  pluck  it  and  bear  it  off  with  her,  but  will  let  it  stay  where  it 
belongs. 

With  these  few  words  I shall  bring  to  a close  the  discussion 
of  description.  I have  only  to  add  that  students  have  frequently 
told  me  that  it  was  through  the  application  of  the  descriptive 
principle  they  first  came  to  realize  the  bearing  of  their  course  in 
Rhetoric  on  the  rest  of  their  college  work. 

7.  Perhaps  it  may  not  be  out  of  place  here  to  say  a general 
word  or  two  on  the  use  of  text  books  in  Rhetoric;  to  answer  the 
question,  if  I may,  why,  with  a body  of  literature  at  her  elbow 


30 


and  with  the  principles  of  composition  in  her  mind,  the  teacher 
of  English  need  have  recourse  to  a special  text  book  in  Rhetoric 
at  all.  Here,  at  first  blush,  would  appear  to  be  an  idle  reduplica- 
tion. And  I imagine  that  a great  many  well  equipped  teachers 
would  find  their  most  profitable  method  to  be  in  leading  their 
pupils  to  investigate  inductively  what  the  art  of  writing  is  by  an 
analysis  of  the  required  authors  and  by  a careful  criticism  of  the 
pupils’  application  of  the  principles  discovered  in  these  authors. 
This  method  of  teaching  Rhetoric,  indeed,  is  likely  to  come  more 
and  more  into  use,  as  the  teachers  acquire  a finer  efficiency. 

A strong  case,  however,  might  be  made  on  the  other  side, — 
on  the  employment  of  special  text  books.  To  begin  with,  in  re- 
cent years  the  text  books  in  Rhetoric  have  reached  a high  degree 
of  excellence.  It  might  even  be  contended  that  in  no  other  study 
have  the  principles  of  pedagogy  been  more  thoroughly  mastered. 
The  appreciation  of  literature  itself,  on  its  formal  side,  has  always 
been  deeply  implicated  in  the  methods  revealed  in  the  best  text 
books  on  the  art  of  writing.  And  in  teaching  composition,  the 
artistic  approach  is  generally  the  most  practicable  and  unequivocal. 
It  is  part  of  the  business  of  text  books  to  isolate  or  throw  into 
relief  model  paragraphs  and  salient  passages,  passages,  too — 
the  very  best  of  them — often  not  found  in  the  authors  the  pupil 
is  reading.  They  are  frequently  selected  as  having  a very  present 
appeal  to  every  day  interests.  Thus  the  pupils’  attention  is  likely 
to  be  more  concentrated;  they  come  to  apprehend  visually  that 
good  writing  is  not  confined  to  those  masters  who  are  enrolled 
in  their  course,  but  that  the  field  is  world-wide  and  that  in  con- 
temporary literature  the  same  principles  are  observed  constantly 
that  are  evoked  under  the  shadow  of  great  names.  The  teacher 
of  English,  too,  might  find  it  irksome  forever  to  interpret  and  to 
analyze  rhetorically  the  same  authors.  Text  books  in  Rhetoric 
place  before  the  pupils  the  one  method  as  distinct  from  the  other, 
and  this  distinction,  to  young  minds,  may  be  important. 

In  either  case,  whether  the  teacher  of  composition  proposes  to 
use  text  books  in  her  classes  or  not,  she  cannot  afford  not  to  have 
her  private  shelf  crowded  with  them.  She  is  thus  repeatedly  com- 
ing in  touch  with  new  and  helpful  suggestions.  What  she  has 
dimly  conceived  may  burst  into  revelation  from  a text  book.  The 
hints  from  others  induce  her  to  read  widely;  they  amplify  her 
notes,  and  occasionally,  too,  bring  her  into  stimulating  relations 


31 


with  distant  colleagues.  Though  in  every  text  book  she  will  find 
much  that  is  not  to  her  immediate  service,  she  is  likely,  on  the 
other  hand,  to  discover  something  that  puts  in  a more  definite 
way  than  she  has  hitherto  thought  out  what  has  been  on  her  mind. 
Every  teacher,  then,  if  she  values  her  work,  will  keep  pretty 
close  to  the  new  publications.  In  schools  where  composition  occu- 
pies a full  quota  of  hours  apart  from  the  other  studies,  a text 
book,  at  least  in  the  lower  classes,  is  advisable.  In  the  upper 
classes  much  of  the  work  might  be  done  through  a series  of  reading 
texts.  But  whatever  books  she  employs,  it  is  best,  I should  say, 
to  avoid  the  compendiums.  She  should  be  her  own  compendium  of 
rules,  and  her  own  storehouse  of  grammatical  mistakes,  drawn 
from  the  efforts  of  her  classes. 

And  this  general  rule  she  might  bind  to  her.  If  she  finds  that 
she  is  on  the  point  of  using  the  same  unrevised  textbook  for  three 
successive  years — I refer,  of  course,  to  the  ordinary  working 
textbook — she  better  take  a summer  off  by  the  seashore  or  among 
the  mountains  to  think  it  over.  Possibly  her  brain  has  become 
atrophied  and  she  needs  a long  rest.  For  relaxation  she  might 
try  letter  writing,  not  to  the  school  board,  even  if  they  have  driven 
her  into  her  rut,  but  to  her  intimates, — long,  ardent  epistles  to 
pick  up  neglected  friendship.  In  the  French  schools,  where  they 
do  so  many  things  well,  letter  writing  forms  an  important  part  of 
courses  in  composition.  Thus,  next  to  fishing  and  tramping  and 
a novel  or  two,  her  letters  might  have  a distinct  bearing  on  her 
further  usefulness  as  a teacher. 

III.* 

But  I have  no  intention  of  diverting  what  I have  to  say  into 
a parade  of  more  or  less  “helpful  suggestions.”  Hints  as  to 
methods  we  have  always  with  us.  The  problem  confronting  the 
high  schools  suggests  a discussion  quite  different  from  that.  The 
present  situation,  indeed,  cries  to  heaven.  “Freshman  English,” 
a teacher  writes  to  me,  “will  resolve  itself  into  a grammar,  sen- 
tence, paragraph,  spelling  and  punctuation  drill,  perhaps  all  that 
we  should  demand,  though  less  than  I formerly  aimed  at.”  And 
another  teacher  declares  in  print:  “College  English  is  bad,  in- 

*A  major  part  of  the  following1  pages,  together  with  some  introductory 
matter,  was  read  before  an  Education  Conference  held  in  Eugene,  Ore- 
gon, June  24,  1910. 


32 


credibly,  intolerably  bad.”  These  are  not  isolated  voices;  the  land 
rings  with  them.  My  own  lamentation  would  be  so  piteous  that 
I gladly  run  under  cover  of  a quotation.  It  is  putting  it  mildly 
to  say  that,  in  this  country,  to  the  average  youth  of  eighteen,  the 
ability  to  write  intelligently  his  mother  tongue  or  at  least  the  pre- 
vailing tongue  of  his  precinct  is  about  as  rare  an  accomplishment 
as  were  formerly  supposed  to  be  a rich  man’s  chances  of  entering 
the  upper  Kingdom.  And  this  youth  of  eighteen  has  completed 
his  high  school  course  and  is  possibly  dreaming  of  four  years  at  a 
university,  years  during  which  his  exercise  in  English  will  become 
nothing  short  of  clamorous.  If,  then,  his  written  word  is  so  bad, 
we  might  well  ask,  why  is  it  so?  Is  it  improving?  What  is  the 
remedy? 

To  none  of  these  questions  do  I bring  a golden  answer.  A dis- 
cussion of  the  first  two,  indeed,  as  engaging  as  it  appears,  would 
not,  I imagine,  be  in  itself  of  much  profit  unless  it  constantly  im- 
plied an  answer  to  the  third,  the  remedy.  A little  excursion,  to 
be  sure,  in  muckraking  might  be  enjoyable,  yet  it  calls  for  a rather 
highly  cultivated  talent  in  psychological  analysis  and  dialectics. 
To  be  certain  of  my  points,  I should  want  to  read  more  attentively 
than  I have  been  in  the  habit  of  reading  the  latest  numbers  of  our 
ten  cent  magazines. 

An  easy  answer  to  the  question  why  the  use  of  English  is 
so  bad  might  be  that  the  teaching  of  composition  is  ill  done, — 
the  teachers  are  poorly  equipped,  they  are  not  facing  the  real 
issue,  their  methods  are  wrong.  Now,  as  I said  before,  let  us 
not  for  the  moment  be  too  eager  to  plunge  into  a discussion  of 
methods.  A teacher’s  methods  are  to  be  judged  by  her  accom- 
plishment, not  always  either  by  her  immediate  accomplishment. 
Nor  is  any  teacher,  be  she  ever  so  efficient,  likely  to  make  new  dis- 
coveries of  methods.  Any  methods  she  may  adopt  will  perforce 
be  as  old  as  teaching  itself.  The  danger  here  is  that  an  inex- 
perienced teacher,  one  who  has  not  yet  realized  where  her  strength 
lies,  may  be  led  to  copy  an  older  teacher’s  attitudes  without  her 
discipline.  She  will  have  a ready  ear  for  short  cuts  and  royal 
roads,  and  her  enthusiasm  may  miss  the  point.  For  behind  every 
method,  new  or  old,  must  lie  not  only  a thorough  familiarity  with 
the  minutest  details  of  her  subject  but  also  a faculty  of  arousing 
all  kinds  of  students  to  do  useful  work.  The  problem  is  in  reality 


33 


profoundly  psychological;  it  strikes  too  close  to  the  personality 
of  the  teacher  to  admit  of  demonstrable  solution. 

But  if  the  teacher  of  composition  is  manifestly  incompetent, 
how  did  she  get  her  place  and  how  does  she  happen  to  retain  it? 
Were  any  influences  brought  to  bear  in  her  favor  other  than  the 
recommendations  of  those  who  were  specifically  qualified  to  judge? 
And  here  we  are  embarassed  by  the  circumstance  that  rival  insti- 
tutions are  engaged  in  a momentous  warfare  for  their  own  off- 
spring. I am  told  even  that  in  some  states  it  is  difficult  for  a 
teacher  from  another  state,  no  matter  how  assured  her  efficiency 
may  be,  to  find  a position.  The  motive  here  is  doubtless  not  en- 
tirely vicious.  The  state  in  question  may  be  honestly  convinced 
that  its  teachers  are  adequately  trained  and  that  it  is  perilous 
to  have  to  do  with  outsiders.  The  principle,  however,  is  likely 
to  do  immense  harm,  especially  as  good  teachers  are  so  uncommonly 
rare.  It  might  easily  happen  that  out  of  a large  number  of  pros- 
pective teachers  turned  out  in  a year  but  a very  limited  per  cent, 
of  them  would  be  worthy  of  serious  recommendation.  Besides, 
such  a system  thwarts  the  very  democracy  that  should  underlie 
education.  Its  logical  fallacy  becomes  evident  when  legislators  pro- 
pose, as  some  of  them  have  proposed,  that  teachers  in  state  uni- 
versities be  appointed  from  the  various  counties  in  the  state.  Close 
corporation  and  inbreeding  in  the  choice  of  teachers  are  anom- 
alous. These  evils,  however,  are  hardly  likely  to  grow;  the  mo- 
tives behind  them  are  becoming  more  and  more  discredited. 

In  case  poor  teachers  have  been  highly  recommended  by  author- 
ities that  ought  to  know,  the  schools  are  evidently  not  to  blame. 
They  have  been  trapped  and  must  in  some  way  gnaw  themselves 
free.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  what  inducements  are  they  offer- 
ing for  good  teachers?  Does  it  ever  happen  that,  between  two 
teachers,  the  contract  as  in  bridge  building  goes  to  the  lowest 
bidder?  If  so,  and  the  lowest  bidder  is  a poor  teacher,  the  trap 
has  been  set  maliciously  for  the  pupils  and  the  community.  Or  say 
this  is  the  situation.  A teacher  is  desired,  say,  in  Latin,  with 
composition  on  the  side.  Is  composition  ever  given  to  a teacher 
who  professes  no  special  interest  in  it?  Now  Rhetoric,  in  the 
happy  phrase  of  Professor  Baldwin,  should  be  regarded  as  sub- 
sidiary to  the  whole  curriculum,  as  the  organon — to  borrow  Bacon’s 
word  for  logic — of  any  course  of  study.  In  the  old  days,  the  days 
of  our  fancy,  before  the  period  of  confusion,  it  would  have  been  per- 

3 


34 


fectly  safe  to  entrust  the  teaching  of  composition  to  the  pedagogue 
in  Latin.  But  some  recent  conceptions  of  the  mark  of  an  educa- 
tion show  signs  of  change.  And  it  is  today  quite  possible  that  the 
teacher  in  Latin  will  carry  with  him  two  sets  of  English  vocabu- 
laries, one  solecistical,  with  which  he  buries  the  dead,  and  the 
other  rigid  grammatical,  with  which  he  entombs  the  living.  Nor 
do  teachers  in  other  subjects  than  the  languages  escape  the  re- 
sults of  these  confusions  that  destroy.  Consequently  the  pupils’ 
conception  of  what  expression  means  becomes  exceedingly  vague 
and  narrow. 

Again,  in  schools  where  there  are  special  teachers  of  English, — 
the  term  English  including  English  Literature  and  Rhetoric — a 
student  informs  me  this  condition  prevails.  Teachers  in  certain 
branches  get  such  and  such  a salary,  but  the  salaries  of  the  teach- 
ers of  English  are  considerably  lower.  This  strikes  me  as  rather 
interesting,  especially  as  good  teachers  in  English  are  as  rare 
as  good  teachers  in  any  other  subject.  It  is  bootless  to  point  out 
that  there  are  more  applicants  in  the  field.  This  is  due  partly  to 
the  fact,  I fear,  that  English  is  considered  easier  to  master  than 
other  subjects  and  partly  also  to  the  fact  that  a good  many  make 
it  what  they  call  a secondary  subject,  their  main  interest  lying 
elsewhere.  In  college  the  most  superficial  minds  often  run  to  the 
English  department  because,  forsooth,  the  word  has  an  indigenous 
and  undisciplinary  clang.  Schools  should  not  be  hoodwinked  by  this 
disorder.  The  best  of  such  teachers  are  in  a position  to  command 
as  high  salaries  as  teachers  in  any  other  subject.  So  rare,  indeed, 
are  inspiring  teachers  in  composition  that  the  principle  of  desig- 
nating for  them  lower  salaries  than  are  apportioned  to  teachers 
in  other  branches  is  doubtless  accountable  in  some  measure  for  the 
present  degrading  situation. 

1.  An  inquiry  into  the  existing  status  in  the  use  of  English 
as  compared  with  that  of  former  times  would  involve  a more 
extended  examination  than  I am  prepared  to  give.  Perhaps, 
however,  a mere  glance  at  what  an  education  in  New  England 
implied  in  the  early  years  of  the  nineteenth  century  may  be  of 
some  service.  Emerson,  as  we  know,  was  somewhat  backward  in 
his  studies.  His  father  mourns  that  at  three  years  of  age,  “Ralph 
does  not  read  very  well  yet.”  At  eighteen  he  graduated  with 
fifty-eight  other  boys  of  like  age  from  a high  school  called,  at 
the  time,  Harvard  College.  Emerson  stood  about  midway  in  his 


35 


class.  He  read  the  class  poem,  but  only  after  several  others  had 
positively  declined  the  honor.  He  took  prizes,  second  prizes,  in 
essay  contests.  His  letters  at  this  time  are  boyish,  interesting, 
and  remarkably  well  expressed.  Many  of  the  lads  kept  journals 
— they  were  encouraged  to — in  which  they  wrote  down  as  they 
might  the  thoughts  and  experiences  that  came  to  them.  The 
teachers  of  this  high  school  have  left  no  monographs  by  which 
we  may  measure  their  erudition.  Emerson  studied  composition 
under  a certain  Channing,  but  he  appears  to  have  held  in  greater 
reverence  his  teacher  of  Greek,  Edward  Everett,  who  was  a notable 
orator  and  preacher.  We  are  entirely  safe  in  assuming  that  all 
these  teachers  had  a fair  apprehension  of  their  mother  tongue, 
and  that  slovenliness  in  the  use  of  the  vernacular  among  their  pu- 
pils would  not  have  been  tolerated.  Why  should  a boy  pursue 
knowledge  up  to  the  age  of  eighteen  if  he  couldn’t  express  him- 
self? Emerson,  we  see,  whose  writings  even  at  this  age  show 
unusual  felicity,  held  no  marked  place  among  his  fifty-eight  class- 
mates. 

Perhaps  these  lads  were  a picked  crowd.  Why,  yes,  of  course 
they  were.  A good  number  of  them  were  southerners,  sons  of 
planters,  among  whom  elegance  in  speech  was  a social  distinction. 
Harvard  College  could  count  on  home  training.  Education  had  not 
yet  become  a mechanism;  “useful”  studies,  vocational  studies,  did 
not  clamor  for  a place  in  the  high  school  curriculum;  immigration 
was  not  yet  disconcerting.  Nor  had  the  necessity  for  technical 
training  arisen;  instead  of  watching  France  and  Germany,  Har- 
vard College  could  rest  serenely  in  the  spirit  of  the  ancient  schools 
of  Greece  and  Rome.  We  must  admit  frankly  that  the  problems 
confronting  this  New  England  school  of  the  early  nineteenth 
century  were  much  simpler,  much  easier  of  solution  than  ours. 
But,  after  all,  may  not  a cursory  contemplation  of  this  old  high 
school,  with  its  definiteness  of  aim,  bring  us  to  a moment’s  pause? 
Might  it  not  help  us  in  a point  of  view — so  seriously  lacking  in 
our  modern  complexity?  Let  me  ask  again — Is  a person  actually 
educated  even  for  a vocation  who,  with  a presumable  equipment 
of  knowledge,  cannot  pick  up  a pencil  and  explain  himself  in  decent 
phrase?  You  remember  the  words  of  my  scripture  reading:  “I 
wonder  how  anyone  can  spend  nine  years  in  school  and  yet  arrive 
at  no  working  knowledge  of  the  principles  of  English  grammar 
and  their  application.”  There  is  at  least  one  phase  in  the  teaching 


36 


of  these  New  England  boys  that,  in  the  way  of  comparison,  offers 
us  moderns  meager  consolation. 

Nor  if  we  should  compare  ourselves  with  our  predecessors  ten 
years  ago  do  I judge  we  would  gain  much  comfort.  Here  we  are 
dealing  with  more  relative  standards.  Now  when  one  starts  at 
zero  and  goes  to  one,  the  progress  has  been  very  great  indeed.  If 
my  mathmatics  serves  me,  the  advance  may  not  be  very  well 
measured;  it  is  infinite.  Of  course  the  jump  from  one  to  two  is 
measurable.  If  a child,  for  example,  said  “goo”  yesterday  and 
spells  “cat”  today,  the  progress  in  articulation  is  beyond  words 
to  express.  But  if  the  child  spells  “cat”  today  and  “dog’  tomor- 
row, we  are  not  nearly  so  stunned.  So  when  a high  school  puts 
English  composition  into  its  curriculum,  our  hopes  spring  high. 
But  when  it  appears  that  after  a decade  the  pupils  of  that  high 
school  have  merely  arrived  at  the  point  of  spelling  “dog”  incor- 
rectly, we  stop  to  think.  “Spelling,”  my  text  runs,  “has  been 
abolished  from  the  public  school  curricula  and  care  in  orthography 
is  beneath  the  notice  of  our  twentieth  century  students.”  This  is  the 
condition  in  which  many  young  people  are  entering  college  today. 
They  are  from  accredited  schools  and  hence  their  product  is  un- 
challenged. One  would  think  that  they  were  at  an  age  to  escape, 
if  they  wished,  special  training  in  Rhetoric;  and  yet  the  college 
finds  that  it  has  to  begin  with  them  all  over  again.  Their  expres- 
sion is  so  faulty  that  one  sometimes  wonders  if  they  are  in  a con- 
dition to  take  up  liberal  studies.  If  reading  has  not  taught  them, 
at  least,  to  observe,  will  lectures  set  them  thinking?  Apparently, 
some  of  them.  And  I am  inclined  to  assume  that  a fairly  shrewd 
intelligence  may  express  itself  in  abominable  speech  and  in  shame- 
less writing. 

2.  For  this  situation  the  teachers  of  composition  everywhere, 
in  college  and  high  schools  alike,  are  naturally  bound  to  appro- 
priate a share  of  the  odium.  We  are  all  of  us  in  the  same  boat. 
People  look  to  us  for  a solution  of  the  problem  and  we  have  none 
to  offer.  There  is,  of  course,  much  of  caustic  analysis  and  baffling 
criticism,  curiously  enough  from  those,  at  times,  who  have  never 
conducted  classes  in  composition.  And  what  sufficing  answer  can 
be  made  to  charges  based  on  the  meagre  accomplishment  of  courses 
in  this  subject.  How  easily,  too,  may  such  courses  fall  into  useless 
ways,  become  a cut  and  dried  thing,  unadapted  and  unwatched, 
a sort  of  fetish  of  plausibilities.  But  on  the  whole  the  critics 


37 


of  English  are  very  kind.  No  subject  has  such  a host  of  friends; 
and  they  gather  about  the  invalid  not  to  mourn  but  to  cure.  Sup- 
pose we  parley  with  them  a moment  to  see,  like  good  physicians, 
if  we  may  not  give  a fair  record  of  the  disease  before  we  suggest 
a remedy. 

What  can  teachers  of  Rhetoric  count  upon?  Surely  not  home 
training.  Sometime,  perhaps;  in  the  past  the  home  may  have 
counted  for  much.  But  in  this  strenuous  and  efficient  day,  this 
day  of  terrible  majorities,  the  home  may  be  a very  happy  place, 
but  good  English  is  not  at  ease  there.*  On  the  contrary,  as  a writer 
I quoted  a moment  ago  says,  “Bad  English  is  bred  in  the  bone  of 
the  average  American  boy.”  He  hears  it  everywhere — on  the 
street  corners,  in  the  school  yard,  and  at  home.  Here,  perhaps,  is 
the  first  cause  that  I hinted  at  some  time  ago.  I am  speaking, 
of  course,  of  the  average  home,  the  sort  of  place  that  now  and  again 
breeds  geniuses.  An  Abraham  Lincoln  will  walk  nine  miles  a day 
to  school,  until  he  is  brought  back  from  his  wandering  and  set  to 
useful  work.  He  will  later  go  off  twelve  miles  to  buy  a grammar. 
Such  a boy,  or  a Franklin,  who  in  his  youth  transcribed  and  re- 
transcribed passages  from  the  Spectator,  we  needn’t  bother  much 
about.  They  disconcert  both  home  and  school,  and  the  less  we  apply 
theory  to  them  the  better.  Nor  is  it  well  to  lay  very  violent  hands 
on  the  boy  who  sets  up  a printing  press,  nor  even  on  the  boy,  I 
might  say,  who  spouts  in  roaring  phrase  • great  vanities.  They 
will  come  to  their  own,  if  the  school  is  given  a chance.  Nor  need 
we  feel  greatly  alarmed  over  the  boy  who  neglects  much,  but  who 
reads  widely  and  thinks  and  feels.  The  school  welcomes  such  boys 
and  has  news  for  them.  Boys  of  literary  initiative,  in  spite  of 
the  influence  of  home  and  playground,  do  not  come  within  the 
range  of  the  present  problem. 

It  is  the  youth  of  the  compact  terrible  majority  that  is  trouble- 
some, the  average  boy  from  the  average  home.  He  stands  dis- 
consolate, unreceptive,  quite  abashed  that  the  worm  of  Rhetoric 
should  be  thrust  down  him.  Grammar  has  to  be  fed  to  him  in 
diluted  form,  with  a long  spoon.  Its  taste  is  to  him  as  gruel.  And 
his  stomach  has  so  long  ceased  its  proper  functioning  that  this 
new  stuff  becomes  leaden.  He  didn’t  crave  it;  therefore  he  spews 
most  of  it  out  again.  At  college,  the  instructors  in  Rhetoric  have 
long  given  up  any  pretence  of  expecting  that  a majority  of  their 


38 


students  will  come  to  them  with  a fair  working  knowledge  of 
grammar,  spelling  and  punctuation. 

But  if  the  teacher  of  composition  gains  little  support  from 
the  average  home  environment,  may  she  not  be  liberally  assisted 
by  her  colleagues?  It’s  a beautiful  theory.  I have  already  de- 
veloped it  at  some  length.  “In  a sound  education,”  as  someone 
has  recently  said,  “all  courses  would  make  for  workmanlike  ex- 
pression.” It  would  be  a pity  to  press  this  quotation  too  far.  I fail 
to  see  why  it  does  not  contain  a fundamental  truth,  why  every 
course  in  school,  if  education  were  sound,  should  not  make  for 
workmanlike  expression.  Perhaps  it  does;  pupils  may  actually 
learn  in  their  other  courses  that  expression  deals  with  truths,  that 
the  more  interested  they  become  the  better  they  are  likely  to 
state  their  thoughts;  they  may  learn  other  things,  even  about  com- 
position. As  I say,  it’s  a beautiful  theory.  But,  like  the  theory 
of  bringing  up  the  child  by  example  alone,  it  somehow  doesn’t  seem 
to  work.  I have  looked  over  a good  many  papers  in  other  courses, 
and  have  found  a large  share  of  them,  with  fairly  high  grades 
too,  in  expression  simply  impossible.  The  papers,  however,  have 
been  accepted,  and  there’s  an  end  of  it.  The  theory  has  gone  to 
smash;  the  students  have  not  improved  in  their  expression;  they 
are  at  liberty  to  perpetrate  further  horrors. 

Now  if  all  courses  are  to  make  toward  workmanlike  expression, 
it  is  apparently  the  duty  of  all  teachers  to  see  to  it  that  crude  ex- 
pression does  not  escape  their  censure.  No  paper  should  receive 
credit  unless  it  is  presented  in  the  language  which  the  student  is 
supposed  to  be  writing.  And  this,  of  course,  is  an  ideal  which, 
under  present  conditions,  is  impossible  of  attainment,  for  several 
very  good  reasons.  To  begin  with,  if  every  teacher  made  it  a mat- 
ter of  conscience  to  correct  all  the  poor  English  that  came  her  way, 
she  would  soon  find  that  a good  share  of  her  time  would  be  taken  up 
in  teaching  English  composition.  And  that  was  not  in  her  contract. 
Teachers  must  perforce  carry  about  with  them  certain  elementary 
assumptions,  one  of  them  being,  that,  if  they  are  hired  to  teach 
one  subject,  it  isn’t  very  good  ethics  to  be  teaching  another.  To 
be  sure,  it  isn’t  the  most  distressing  ethics  in  the  world  for  every- 
body to  devote  some  time  to  the  art  of  composition,  this  organon 
of  the  course.  The  ancient  Greeks  had  the  start  of  us  there. 
They  gave  to  the  study  of  Rhetoric  a place  in  their  curriculum 
which  even  its  most  ardent  advocates  would  not  presume  to  demand 


39 


for  it  now.  Yet  with  their  conception  of  its  importance  among 
liberal  studies  I do  not  see  how  we  can  find  great  quarrel.  Fact 
or  truth  is  one  thing  and  the  expression  of  it  is  another,  or,  bet- 
ter said,  the  one  remains  helpless  without  the  other;  and  the 
student  and  his  work  are  not  taken  seriously  if  he  is  not  led  early 
to  realize  the  importance  of  his  expression.  As  Professor  Dewey 
has  recently  said  in  another  connection,  “To  nurture  inspiring  aim 
and  executive  means  into  harmony  with  each  other  is  at  once  the 
difficulty  and  reward  of  the  teacher.”  Yet  as  in  this  progressive 
age  the  average  student  knows  precious  little  about  composition, 
the  burden  on  the  teachers  would  become  absolutely  too  grievous.  It 
would  hardly  be  thought  advisable  for  all  teachers  to  devote  their 
energies  to  the  same  subject. 

And  it  would  be  inadvisable  for  another  reason.  Many  teachers 
today  know  so  little  about  composition  that  what  they  might  say 
to  their  pupils  would  not  be  of  signal  value.  If  such  a statement 
appears  rather  heightened,  I hasten  to  add  that  it  does  not  include 
all  the  teachers  of  subjects  other  than  composition.  As  we  all 
know,  those  who  expect  to  teach  comprise,  when  all  is  said,  the 
most  industrious  and  the  most  scholarly  group  in  a college  class. 
A fair  number  of  them  do  excellent  work  in  all  their  studies, 
in  their  composition  as  well  as  in  their  special  field.  Some,  of 
course,  do  not.  I have  had  under  me  a good  many  prospective 
teachers  who,  though  they  receive  the  highest  praise  in,  say, 
History  or  Mathematics,  are  both  poor  and  listless  in  composition. 
Their  zeal  for  work  seems  to  have  been  exhausted  in  their  favorite 
studies.  It  is  needless  to  say  that,  when  they  come  to  teach,  their 
neglect  will  continue.  Their  pupils  will  express  themselves  un- 
heeded in  diverse  tongues.  As  time  goes  on,  we  should  expect  an 
improvement  here.  At  the  present  moment,  however,  the  problem, 
in  the  nev/er  states  at  least,  is  in  its  worst  phase.  Many  teachers, 
like  the  pupils  under  them,  appear  to  consider  good  English  as  a 
sort  of  special  study,  to  be  learned  in  separate  classes.  They 
therefore  bring  little  aid  to  the  teacher  of  composition. 

3.  I am  aware  that  I have  been  speaking  of  special  classes 
in  composition  as  if,  ideally,  I did  not  believe  in  them.  And  yet 
this  is  not  my  view.  For,  even  if  every  teacher  in  the  school  were 
adept  in  the  use  of  English  and  in  teaching  it,  I believe  that 
special  classes  in  composition  would  nevertheless  be  necessary. 
To  be  sure,  if  conditions  were  ideal,  I think  that  the  amount  of 


40 


time  given  over  to  these  special  classes  could  be  greatly  curtailed. 
The  contention,  “When  we  regard  expression  as  a means  instead 
of  an  end,  the  question  becomes  not,  Can  we  teach  the  art  of 
composition?  but  Can  we  teach  by  means  of  composition?”  may  be 
fairly  valid,  yet  it  may  rest  also  on  the  assumption  that  the  con- 
ditions in  our  schools  are  ideal,  that  every  teacher  will  insist  on 
adequate  expression.  When  this  condition  prevails,  it  may  be  that 
Rhetoric  need  no  longer  be  a required  study  in  our  colleges. 
But  the  present  outlook  for  such  a blessed  state  is  anything  but 
bright.  In  our  secondary  schools  I am  convinced  that  such  a time 
will  never  come.  Indeed,  I doubt  if  anyone  but  a fanatic  would 
seriously  contemplate  taking  composition  as  a special  study  out 
of  our  high  schools.  Some  years  ago  it  was  contended,  and  very 
plausibly  too,  that  a high  school  course  should  be  elective.  Very 
few  would  venture  such  a contention  now;  the  facts  are  against 
it.  And  today  the  facts  are  overwhelmingly  against  making 
Rhetoric  an  elective  study,  even  in  our  colleges.  As  Cardinal 
Newman  believed  that  health  is  a good  in  itself  and  hence  useful 
and  that  intellectual  culture  is  its  own  end,  so  do  I believe  per- 
sonally that  expression  is  its  own  end.  I am  not  speaking,  of 
course,  of  the  relative  importance  between  style  and  matter. 
Leslie  Stephen  has  said  somewhere,  “When  people  ask  whether 
‘form’  or  ‘content,’  style  or  matter,  be  the  most  important,  it  is 
like  asking  whether  order  or  progress  should  be  the  aim  of  a 
statesman,  or  whether  strength  or  activity  be  most  needed  for  an 
athlete.  Both  are  essential  and  neither  excellence  will  supersede 
necessity  for  the  other.  If  you  have  nothing  to  say,  there  is  no 
manner  of  saying  it  well;  and  if  not  well  said,  your  something 
is  as  good  as  nothing.”  So  when  Newman  states  again,  “I  think 
I have  never  written  for  writing’s  sake,”  I suppose,  if  taken  very 
literally,  his  words  express  a truism.  For  the  moment,  however, 
I think  of  him  and  Macaulay  writing  their  paragraphs  over  and 
over  again,  simply,  perhaps,  to  get  the  ring  of  the  parallel  struc- 
ture; of  Franklin  with  his  Spectator;  of  Stevenson  forever  imitat- 
ing; of  Maupassant  casting  seven  years’  work  into  the  rubbish 
heap;  of  Hawthorne  with  his  still  longer  apprenticeship;  of  the 
poets  forever  polishing  their  lines.  If  masters  in  the  art  are  so 
put  to  it,  what  shall  we  say  of  beginners,  even  college  students, 
whose  purpose  in  writing  is  often  embryonic  to  a degree.  Right 
and  fitting  expression,  like  physical  exercise  or  like  piano  playing, 


41 


can  surely  be  thought  of  as  an  end  in  itself  without  undue  worry 
of  a weighty  content.  A carpenter  may  aspire  some  day  to  build 
a house,  but  he  does  not  of  necessity  build  houses  in  order  to  learn 
how  to  handle  his  plane.  Good  writing,  I take  it,  is  as  laborious 
and  artificial  as  carpentry;  only  the  practiced  hand  can  make  it 
appear  easy  and  natural.  Style,  like  beauty,  “is  its  own  excuse 
for  being.” 

Some  teachers — and  among  them  teachers  of  composition,  too 
— have  been  suggesting  that  perhaps  a solution  of  our  trouble- 
some problem  would  be  for  the  teachers  of  Rhetoric  to  take  over 
the  written  w^ork  of  the  other  classes,  to  see  if  the  pupils,  in 
giving  that  a lustre,  might  not  be  accomplishing  the  ends  of  expres- 
sion. This  would  include  the  rewriting  of  examination  papers. 
The  theory  has  its  attractions,  and  is  presented  most  persuasively. 
I have  already  commented  upon  this  plan,  and  have  suggested 
that  as  a makeshift,  in  lieu  of  nothing  better,  it  might  be  worth 
trying.  When  one  considers  what  a poor  body  of  writers  the 
average  school  turns  out,  one  realizes  that  the  heralding  of  such 
a plan  was  inevitable.  A makeshift,  however,  it  certainly  is  for 
two  obvious  reasons.  In  the  first  place  I doubt  if  the  amount 
of  writing  required  in  the  other  courses  would  be  at  all  adequate 
to  drill  the  pupils  in  expression,  and  in  the  second  place  I am 
convinced  that  the  nature  of  this  sort  of  work  is  not  such  as 
would  stir  the  pupils’  initiative,  the  aim  of  a course  in  composition. 
In  this  connection,  let  me  quote  at  some  length  the  words  of  an 
Englishman,  Phillip  J.  Hartog,  in  his  excellent  book,  “The  Writing 
of  English.”* 

“The  influence  of  examinations  on  writing  and  on  thought 
training  is,  in  the  main,  an  evil  one,  and  in  two  ways.  In  the 
first  place,  they  tend  to  paralyze  the  powers  of  exposition.  The 
mental  attitude  enforced  on  the  examinee  is  the  slightly  ridiculous 
attitude,  for  a writer,  of  a person  obliged  to  give  information  to 
some  one  who  already  possesses  it.  In  everyday  life  you  are  silent 
in  the  presence  of  a person  better  acquainted  with  a subject  than 
yourself.  It  is  only  in  the  examination  room  that  you  tell  the 
better  informed  person,  your  examiner,  what  he  already  knows, 
and  what  he  is  often  intensely  bored  to  be  told  again.  If  you 
are  a wise  person  and  clever  examinee,  you  allude,  you  hint,  you 


♦The  Clarendon  Press,  1908. 


42 


suggest,  you  convey  your  knowledge  in  the  briefest  possible  form, 
that  is,  in  a form  totally  unintelligible  to  the  previously  uninitiated. 
Is  it  any  wonder  that,  with  this  topsy-turvy  training  brought  to 
perfection,  so  many  brilliant  examinees  are  incapable  in  everyday 
life  of  explaining  themselves  to  everyday  people,  who,  unlike 
examiners,  are  not  already  acquainted  with  what  they  have  to 
say?  Is  it  any  wonder  that  the  business  clerk  cannot  write  a 
business  letter;  that  the  military  officer  cannot  give  clear  instruc- 
tions to  his  juniors?  Have  they  not  been  carefully  trained  by 
the  examination  system  in  the  art  of  unintelligibility?  This  is 
one  evil — a terrible  evil  from  the  point  of  view  of  efficiency — which 
is  largely  due  to  the  effect  of  examinations,  uncounteracted  by 
other  training.  The  intelligent  person  untrained  by  examinations 
expresses  himself  better  than  the  person  trained  by  examinations.” 

The  writer,  you  will  have  noticed,  is  evidently  speaking  of  the 
English  Civil  Service  examinations.  His  criticism,  however,  is 
so  well  guarded  that  I think  it  may  well  apply  to  all  examinations, 
or  to  recitations,  for  that  matter,  uncounteracted,  as  he  says,  by 
other  training.  In  a following  paragraph  he  approaches  the 
subject  from  another  side. 

“But  there  is  an  evil  still  more  serious,  if  less  grotesque,  for 
which,  if  it  is  not  wholly  responsible  the  examination  system  is, 
I believe,  largely  responsible.  We  have  seen  that  the  training 
in  the  mother  tongue  should  have  as  its  object  not  only  the  cultiva- 
tion of  the  powers  of  exposition,  but,  above  all,  the  development 
of  intellectual  initiative.  The  examination,  the  all-powerful  influence 
which  forces  the  work  of  each  student  into  a mould  that  shall 
please  another  person,  his  examiner,  rather  than  himself,  tends, 
and  must  tend,  to  destroy  intellectual  initiative.” 

Thus,  although  it  is  but  fair  to  demand  that  answers  to 
examination  questions  be  expressed,  at  least,  grammatically,  I do 
not  think  that  in  revising  or  rewriting  these  answers  the  pupils 
will  have  learned  very  much  about  composition.  The  conception 
that  composition  should  rest  in  correct  statement  is  not  an  exalted 
one.  The  case  against  taking  over  other  written  work  into  the 
composition  class  is  also  strong,  though,  among  mature  students, 
not  quite  so  absolute.  To  begin  with,  there  is  not  enough  of  it 
to  be  of  definite  service,  nor  would  an  increase  in  the  number 
of  papers  required  in  the  other  courses  help  much.  I believe  that 
even  in  courses  in  Literature,  where  a great  variety  of  subjects 


43 


for  papers  might  easily  be  suggested,  class  recitations  and  discus- 
sions, the  freedom  of  good  talk,  would  be  more  satisfying  to  both 
teacher  and  pupils  than  the  scribbling  of  frequent  papers.  And 
in  the  other  courses  this  would  hold  with  still  greater  force.  Nor, 
again,  when  papers  are  required  in  these  other  courses,  is  there 
in  them  much  scope  for  the  pupils'  initiative  and  originality. 
Mature  students  can,  of  course,  write  essays  on  poems,  on  writers, 
or  even  on  problems  of  science,  with  originality.  The  reader  gets 
the  personal  reaction.  But  among  the  most  trying  papers  in  a 
freshman  class  are  so-called  expositions  on  these  very  subjects, 
a sort  of  aftermath  of  the  high  school  work.  They  are  simply 
dull  rehashes  of  what  other  people  think,  tests  of  knowledge — 
useful,  no  doubt,  in  their  places,  but  they  are  not  compositions. 
A composition  is  the  orderly  expression  of  an  experience  which 
has  so  seized  upon  the  pupiVs  life  that  he  throws  it  out  as  some- 
thing new.  It  is  through  this  kind  of  writing  that  expression  is 
taught.  Nearly  all  pupils  are  undergoing  these  new  experiences; 
in  them  there  is  often  a large  element  of  emotion.  The  teacher 
of  composition  is  not  content  until  she  has  tapped  this  source  of 
originality.  This  may  come  from  the  pupil's  other  studies — his 
erudition;  it  is  quite  as  likely  not  to.  In  many  cases  it  is  essen- 
tially a matter  of  feeling,  and  hence  is  expressed  in  description 
or  narration.  But  no  matter;  the  teacher  pounces  upon  it,  and 
when  she  has  captured  it,  she  asks  for  more  of  that  kind  of  thing, 
for  she  realizes  that  in  this  way  only,  in  this  initiating  effort,  will 
the  pupil  be  able  to  tell  what  he  actually  thinks  and  feels.  It  is 
a regulating,  an  educative  process;  it  establishes  self-reliance 
and  furthers  those  mutual  relations  of  intimacy  between  teacher 
and  pupils  which  give  to  the  school  room  its  proper  atmosphere. 

Now  if  the  teacher  of  Mathematics  or  the  teacher  of  History 
is  desirous  of  obtaining  these  peculiar  rewards  and  is  conscious 
that  she  is  adequately  trained  for  these  peculiar  tasks,  let  her 
by  all  means  take  a class  in  composition.  Or  let  the  teacher  of 
Latin  take  one,  or,  naturally,  the  teacher  of  Literature.  In  many 
schools  all  these  combinations  or  compromises  will  have  to  be 
made.  Yet,  under  existing  conditions,  in  a state  singularly  threat- 
ened as  Oregon  is  at  this  moment  with  false  utilitarian  conceptions 
of  education,  I hope  that  before  long  all  our  high  schools  will  be 
able  to  establish  separate  departments  of  Rhetoric.  That  such  a 
separate  department  exists  in  the  State  University,  no  matter  how 


44 


it  came  about,  I consider  fortunate.  There  need  be  no  worry  about 
the  future;  adjustments  can  easily  be  effected.  Meanwhile  the 
study  of  this  subject  everywhere  will  take  on  a wider  significance. 
No  less  insistence  will  be  placed  upon  form  but  a great  deal  more 
insistence  upon  matter.  There  will  have  always  to  be  much  reading- 
in  connection  with  courses  in  composition,  reading  that  is  to  stim- 
ulate the  students  to  express  themselves  originally.  No  course 
should  be  more  useful,  and  less  permeated  with  a narrow  utilita- 
rianism. 

If  a teacher,  then,  is  to  carry  out  these  ideas  effectively,  it  is 
evident  that  she  will  have  to  undergo  a rather  special  training, 
or,  at  least,  her  mind  will  have  to  be  open  to  the  wide  possibilities 
of  her  subject.  Furthermore,  whatever  she  teaches  besides  com- 
position, one  subject  she  must  of  necessity  teach — Grammar.  At 
present  Grammar  holds  a most  anomolous  place  in  our  curricula. 
It  is  often  considered  as  finished  when  the  grades  are  over,  and 
then  comes  composition.  Of  course  actually  no  such  thing  takes 
place.  You  can  never  finish  Grammar,  and  you  can  hardly  begin 
composition  too  early.  Grammar  is  simply  a part  of  the  general 
subject,  Rhetoric.  They  must  begin  together  and  end  together; 
separate  years  for  them  are  unthinkable.  In  many  of  the  schools 
of  Canada,  not  to  speak  of  foreign  countries,  Grammar  goes  straight 
through  the  high  school  course.  If  it  is  taught  with  composition, 
the  ways  of  teaching  it  become  much  more  wholesome;  grammar 
taught  through  writing  and  the  study  of  authors  reveals  both 
intricacies  and  flexibilities  that  are  often  lost  sight  of  in  the  dry, 
formal  presentation  of  an  ordinary  text-book.  Grammar,  to  be 
sure,  has  its  formalities  and  its  artificialities;  it  has  in  our  language 
a remarkable  historical  background,  a constant  clashing  between 
rules  and  the  violation  of  rules,  a sifting  down  to  that  slowly, 
ever-changing  master  rule  of  all,  Good  Usage.  If  the  teacher 
of  Rhetoric  takes  it  upon  her  to  loosen  from  his  moorings  the 
average  pupil,  I believe  that,  with  the  possible  exception  of  a class 
in  Literature,  she  will  have  time,  in  the  larger  high  schools,  for 
little  outside  of  her  own  subject. 

4.  The  question  of  English,  as  you  are  aware,  is  under  wide 
discussion.  During  the  winter  months  all  the  journals  of  education 
and  all  the  other  journals  are  likely  to  be  devastated  by  an  epi- 
demic of  letters,  counter-irritants  against  that  mortal  plague,  poor 
English.  The  daily  papers  catch  the  microbe  and  take  on  the 


45 


frenzy.  Learned  societies  express  themselves  without  end.  It 
looks  as  if  something  might  happen.  I have  been  greatly  interested 
by  the  way  the  subject  was  approached  at  the  last  meeting  of 
the  Central  Division  of  the  Modern  Language  Association.  Here 
it  was  agreed,  a foregone  agreement,  that  in  our  secondary  schools 
the  results  obtained  from  the  pupils  in  their  written  work  were 
not  at  all  commensurate  with  the  time  allotted  to  the  study  of 
composition.  Very  wisely  they  have  decided  not  to  suggest  remedies 
until  they  have  discovered  the  symptoms  of  the  disease.  Conse- 
quently they  have  sent  to  our  universities  and  to  many  of  our  high 
schools  a questionnaire  calling  for  a statement  of  the  various 
teachers  of  the  work  that  is  being  done  to  instruct  the  young  idea 
how  to  write.  Such  circulars  have  been  distributed  from  this 
University  to  ten  high  schools  in  the  State.  I hope  there  has  been 
no  delay  in  forwarding  answers,  for  it  seems  to  me  that  much 
good  may  come  from  this  significant  action  of  the  central  committee. 

And  this  has  led  me  to  wonder,  not  so  much  of  the  amount  of 
time  given  to  the  teaching  of  composition  in  our  high  schools  as 
of  the  way  the  time  is  apportioned.  The  teaching  of  composition 
is  accomplished  in  three  ways — by  recitations,  by  consultations, 
and  by  the  reading  of  papers.  In  a well-conducted  course  there 
must  be  an  employment  of  all  three  methods — reading  papers  of 
course;  that  is  as  unavoidable  as  the  holding  of  recitations,  and 
in  a class  of  twenty-five  or  so  pupils  the  amount  of  time  given  to 
paper-reading  will  easily  double  the  time  given  to  recitations.  I 
can  speak  but  generally  of  these  proportions,  for  the  number  of 
recitations  a week  varies  greatly  in  the  different  schools,  and  the 
calculation  is  subject  to  the  constant  variable  of  the  size  of  the 
class.  In  college,  the  amount  of  time  given  to  paper-reading  in 
a class  of  from  twenty-five  to  thirty,  reciting  three  hours  a week, 
more  than  doubles  the  time  taken  up  in  recitations.  We  have  then 
the  spectacle  of  a high  school  teacher  conducting  classes  all  the 
morning  and  spending  the  rest  of  the  day  in  reading  papers.  I 
can  hardly  conceive  of  such  a thing  being  done,  and  yet  I imagine 
that  teachers  of  English  are  given  ample  opportunity  to  devote 
morning  and  afternoon  and  evening  to  their  work,  if  they  want  to. 
Above  all  things  they  should  cultivate  a spirit  of  meekness.  But 
if  they  do  this,  how  are  they  to  get  in  their  periods  for  consultation? 
Now  there  should  be  just  as  much  time  given  to  consultations  as 
to  recitations.  It  is  quite  as  important ; it  is,  in  fact,  the  laboratory 


46 


part  of  the  course.  Composition  is  a laboratory  study  just  as 
much  as  Physics  is.  It  consists  of  class  work,  laboratory  work, 
and  the  correction  of  papers;  or,  if  you  wish  to  keep  up  the  parallel 
with  the  other  arts,  it  must  have  its  hours  of  theory,  its  hours  of 
personal  supervision,  and  the  hours  during  which  the  teacher 
examines  the  student’s  product.  If  anyone  wishes  to  figure  out 
how  all  this  can  be  crammed  into  a day  and  the  teacher  be  given 
a moment  of  leisure  or  even  time  to  work  up  her  courses  in  Rhetoric 
or  Literature,  I gladly  yield  the  floor.  It’s  too  much  for  me.  In 
colleges,  relief  is  often  got  through  student  readers,  an  unsatisfac- 
tory but  unavoidable  expedient.  These  readers,  naturally,  do  not 
release  the  teacher  from  reading  too,  for  whoever  reads  a paper 
holds  the  consultation  upon  it,  and  if  a teacher  shirked  all  reading, 
he  would  soon  find  himself  doing  the  least  important  part  of  the 
work — the  conducting  of  classes.  The  theme  reader,  as  you  know, 
is  an  entirely  different  person  from  a looker-over  of  papers.  You 
can  comb  your  hair  while  looking  over  a paper  on  history;  you’re 
after  facts.  A theme  reader  is  after  a composition.  And,  after 
all,  it’s  a sad  day  when  a college  has  to  resort  to  these  readers, 
for  then  it  begins  to  steal  over  one’s  consciousness  that  large  num- 
bers create  machinery,  and  it  isn’t  a pleasant  thing  to  have  to  own 
up  that  education,  too,  is  a machine. 

But,  to  return  to  the  high  school.  Need  I say  much?  Isn’t 
it  apparent  that  the  teaching  of  composition  there  is  something 
of  a farce?  Has  not  the  teacher  been  given  a task  impossible  of 
accomplishment?  She  is  supposed  to  conduct  as  many  classes  as 
the  teacher  of  Latin  or  the  teacher  of  History.  Some  of  these 
classes  she  may  throw  practically  into  consultation  periods;  that 
will  be  her  lookout.  But  when  does  she  read  her  papers?  I suspect 
that  the  whole  question  will  have  to  be  thought  out  over  again 
and  some  equitable  reorganization  arrived  at.  Remember  we  are 
not  in  the  position  of  the  French  schools  where  all  courses  are 
supposed  to  make  toward  workmanlike  expression. 

Such  a reorganization  as  I have  hinted  at,  such  a reconception 
of  the  problem  of  teaching  composition  is  not  going  to  come  about 
in  a summer.  That  heavy,  slow-moving  entity,  the  dear  public, 
has  got  somehow  to  be  reached  and  cajoled.  He  is  the  ultimate 
nigger  in  the  woodpile.  And  he  has  an  unhappy  way  of  appearing 
often  in  the  guise  of  the  taxpayer — he  holds  the  purse — and 
occasionally  too,  I hazard  the  guess  that  as  such  a one  he  takes 


47 


his  seat  on  the  school  board.  I do  not  mean  to  be  rash.  Now  the 
public,  in  the  soul  of  him,  has  the  best  of  intentions.  In  the 
abstract,  he  approves  of  good  English.  But  how  to  acquire  such 
an  etherial  accomplishment  as  the  writing  thereof,  his  soul  does 
not  readily  yield  him  the  answer.  He  will  have  to  be  told,  just 
as  children  have  to  be  told  how  to  pluck  rainbows.  In  the  long 
run,  he  succumbs  to  the  wiles  of  the  booster.  Educators,  the  world 
over,  have  always  been  the  most  goodly  company  of  agents  of 
this  description. 

Meanwhile,  as  the  Adventists  say,  there  will  be  a period  of 
waiting,  and  the  fabled  game  of  the  stork  and  the  frogs  will  be 
played  over  again — the  stork,  the  public;  the  frogs,  the  teachers 
of  composition.  That  the  teachers  see  from  year  to  year  an 
improvement  in  their  pupils  goes  without  question.  Home  influenc 
counts  for  something,  the  work  of  the  other  teachers,  the  own 
initiative  of  the  pupils.  The  teachers  of  composition  also  witness 
hordes  of  their  pupils  escape  them,  with  the  most  meagre,  the 
dimmest  ideas  about  their  own  language.  Many  of  these  latter 
enter  the  halls  of  the  University.  For  this  condition  there  are 
many  reasons,  one  among  them  being  that  the  teachers  have  not 
been  given  a fair  chance.  King  Stork  holds  sway,  and  what  is 
glorious  sport  for  him  is  mighty  poor  fun  for  the  frogs. 


IV. 

Let  me  recapitulate  very  briefly.  You  and  I,  I hope,  have  come 
to  an  understanding,  in  the  first  place,  that  Rhetoric  is  an  art 
and  hence  differs  from  all  the  other  studies,  except  singing  and 
drawing,  in  a high  school  course,  not  in  name  merely  but  in  kind. 
We  have  noticed  how  universal  it  is,  how  it  underlies  all  liberating 
studies,  how  it  becomes  the  organon  of  a course.  We  have  also 
noticed  how  artificial  it  is — what  a wide  distinction  exists  between 
good  writing  and  good  talk.  And  then  we  have  taken  up  together 
some  details  in  the  presentation  of  the  subject,  insisting  that 
punctuation  is  structural,  that  the  study  of  Grammar  and  the 
study  of  composition  should  go  together,  and  that,  with  our  crude 
body  of  students,  frequent  writing  is  apt  to  lose  its  essential  value 
unless  it  can  be  guided  by  frequent  consultations.  We  have  dis- 
cussed also  what  I have  called  the  descriptive  principle,  and  I 
have  endeavored  to  show  how  this  emotional  element  permeates 
all  kinds  of  writing,  enriching  the  vocabulary  and  giving  to  expres- 


48 


sion  vitality.  I have  attempted  furthermore  to  point  out  that  the 
burden  of  teaching  composition  seems  at  present  to  have  fallen 
almost  entirely  upon  the  teacher  of  English,  and  yet  in  suggesting 
a more  equitable  distribution  of  this  burden  I have  insisted  that 
a composition  is  not  the  bare  expression  of  a truth,  but  an  organized 
thing  revealing  an  intellectual  or  emotional  discovery.  This  is  the 
high  ground  on  which  the  subject  stands.  We  have  reasoned 
together  over  the  difficulties  which  beset  the  teacher,  the  home 
and  other  environment  and  over  the  fact  that,  be  she  ever  so  com- 
petent, more  is  demanded  of  her  than  she  can  well  perform. 

Perhaps  one  thing  more  ought  to  be  said.  What  does  it  all 
amount  to  anyway,  this  pother  about  composition?  It’s  useful, 
no  doubt,  in  its  place,  but  is  it  necessary?  Cannot  a man  get  along 
very  well  without  it?  Our  answer  to  this  question  can  only  come 
from  an  appeal  to  experience.  In  the  solid  past,  it  has  been  found, 
indeed,  that  men  thrive  and  grow  fat  without  a proper  medium 
of  articulation.  It  has  also  been  rather  generally  assumed  that 
education,  if  one  can  get  it,  is  a pretty  good  thing.  The  best 
minds  have  been  so  bold  as  to  maintain  that  in  the  pursuit  of  an 
education  only  a part  of  the  time  should  be  given  over  to  the 
rigid  vocational  studies;  quite  as  large  a share,  particularly  in 
youth,  should  be  reserved  for  more  general  studies,  often  called 
liberal.  The  life  of  man  should  be  not  only  warlike,  but  abundant. 
There  have  been  conceded  to  exist  certain  marks  or  stigmata  of 
an  educated  man,  one  of  the  most  universally  accepted  being  his 
ability  to  express  ideas,  not  in  wild  and  whirling  words,  but  in 
a domesticated  idiom  that  will  not  put  to  flight  other  men  of 
education.  From  the  abundance  of  his  life  should  his  pen  write 
properly.  What  the  future  will  say  about  all  this  is  hidden.  There 
may  be  many  things  there  undreamt  of  in  our  philosophy.  It 
seems  to  me  safest  just  now,  however,  to  guide  our  present  action 
by  the  accumulated  experience  of  the  past. 


